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Vol. 14. No. 729. April 16, 1886. Annual Subscription, $30.00. 


IN PRISON 
AND OUT 


BY 


HESBA STRETTON 


Author of “ HESTER MORLEY’S PROMISE,” 
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Entered at the Post Office, N. Y , as second-class matter. 
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JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 


14 and 16 Vesey St7*eet, 


NEW YORK, 


In Prison and Out, 


BY 


HESBA STRETTON, 

II 

Author of Max Kronter," ** Nelly’s Dark Days,” Bedt*t 
Charity r '‘Alone in London^ &*c., S^c, 



NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELT. COMPANY . 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street 


A V 




' . ‘ TROWS 

PR.^TirO AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY* 
NEV/ YORK* 


X M 


CONTENDS 


CHAPTER I. 

FAGI 

To BEG I AM ASHAMED . 7 

CHAPTER 11 . 

A Boy’s Sentence 20 

CHAPTER HI. 

The Wedding-Ring in Pawn 32 

CHAPTER IV. 

Old Euclid’s Hoard 46 

CHAPTER V. 

Lessons in Prison 61 

CHAPTER VI. 

Not God’s Will? 70 

CHAPTER VII. 

Bess begins Business 81 

CHAPTER VHI. 

The Prison-Crop on a Young Head .... 93 

CHAPTER IX. 

Broken hearted 105 

CHAPTER X. 

Blackett’s Threats 115 

5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XL 

TASU 

An unwilling Thief . 



CHAPTER 

XII. 


Victoria’s Coffin . 



CHAPTER 

XIII. 


Glad Tidings . . . 1 



CHAPTER 

XIV. 


Mrs. Linnett’s Lodgings 

. 

, 161 

CHAPTER 

XV. 


An Hour Too Soon 

• • 

-• 172 

CHAPTER 

XVI. 


Twice in Jail .... 

• • 

. 182 

CHAPTER 

XVII. 


Meeting and Parting . 

• • • 

• 193 

CHAPTER 

XVIII. 


A Red-Letter Day. 



CHAPTER 

XIX. 


Victoria’s Wedding 

• t • 

• . 213 

CHAPTER 

XX. 


Blackett’s Revenge 



CHAPTER 

XXL 


Who is to blame? . 



CHAPTER 

XXII. 


Through Jail to the Grave. 

• • 

• • 250 

CHAPTER 

XXIII. 



Out of the Prison-House . • , 259 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


CHAPTER 1. 

TO BEG I AM ASHAMED. 

T he small back room, which was the home 

of a family, was not much larger than a 
% 

prison-cell, and, in point of cleanliness and 
light and ventilation, was far inferior to it. 
There was a fair-sized sash-window; but more 
than half the panes were broken, and the place 
of the glass supplied by paper, or rags so worn 
as to be useless for any other purpose. Besides 
this, the next row of houses in this thick knot 
of dwelling-places was built so close, as to shut 
out even a glimpse of the sky from the rooms 
on the ground-floor of a house four stories high. 
The whole street had been originally built for 
tenants of a better class ; but, from some reason 
or other, it had fallen into the occupation of the 


7 


8 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


poorest, and each room was considered sufficient 
accommodation for a separate family. 

This small, dark, back room had been in- 
tended for a kitchen. Close against the window 
stood the dust-bin, into which was emptied all 
the waste of . the_ house^ when it was not cast 
out into the street. Fortunately there was 
very little waste of food ; for every scrap that 
could be eaten was greedily devoured, except in 
very extraordinarily good times. It was fortu- 
nate ; for the dust-bin was seldom looked after, 
as the inmates of the crowded dwelling knew 
little, and cared less, for sanitary laws. Even 
the poor, hard-working woman, who had been 
struggling for years to pay the rent of this dark, 
unwholesome den as a home for herself and her 
children, hardly gave a thought to the tainted 
air they breathed, whether the wirdow was 
open or shut. She sighed now and then for 
better light, and the cool freshness of free air; 
but darkness and a sickly atmosphere seemed 
to be the natural lot of all about her, and she 
was not given to murmur. She had grown so 
weary with the long and monotonous battle of 
life, that she had no longer energy enough to 


TO BEG I AM ASHAMED. 


9 


murmur. It was God’s will, she said to i»erself, 
finding something like peace in the belief. There 
was a darker depth of misery to which she had 
not yet sunk, — that of feeling there was no 
God at all. 

Her husband had been dead for ten years, 
and she had had two little children to hamper 
all her efforts to lift herself and them out of 
their poverty. She had often failed to procure 
necessaries, and she had never been so success- 
ful as to be able to provide for more than their 
barest wants. They had all learned how to 
pinch hard, how to eat little enough, and how to 
wear the scantiest clothing. They were always 
trying to trick Nature, who never ceased to de- 
mand urgently more than they could give, but 
who consented to take less than her claim, 
though the landlord would not. The children 
spent most of their waking hours in the street ; 
for there was a small boiler in the kitchen, and 
the mother took in washing, with which every 
inch of the small room was crowded. When 
the weather was too bad for them to. be in the 
streets, they lived on the common staircase or 
in the passages- hearing and seeing, every form 


10 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


of evil, and of good also, swarming about them, 
and growing up amongst them as other children 
grow up amid the peaceful influences of well 
ordered homes. 

In the mother’s mind there were still linger 
ing dim memories of a very different childhood, 
and of better times before her marriage. Some- 
times there came to her, as there comes to all 
of us, sudden flashes of light out of the misty 
past; and she saw again her cottage -home 
down in the country, and the village-school she 
went to, and her first place as a young servant 
in the vicarage, where the clergyman’s wife had 
taken care she should keep up her acquaintance 
with the Collects and the Catechism. Most of 
the Collects, and nearly all the Catechism, had 
faded away from her remembrance ; but many a 
quiet Sunday afternoon she had talked to her 
children of the vicarage garden, where flowers 
grew all the year round, and of the village- 
green, where boys and girls could play unmo- 
lested and unnoticed ; and how she left home to 
come tc London for high wages, and had never 
seen it again. Then she told them of the gay 
and grani doings there had been in the great 


TO BEG I AM ASH\MED. 


II 


houses where she had been in service until she 
met with their father, and gave up all the gran- 
deur and luxury for love of him. And then her 
voice would falter a little as she talked to them 
of his death, and of all the troubles following 
quickly one after another, till she was thankful 
to have even such a home as this. 

The poor mother was ignorant ; but her igno- 
rance was light and knowledge compared with 
that of her children. They knew nothing, and 
thought of nothing, beyond what they saw and 
heard about them. David could read a little, 
but Bess not at all. The thick knot of streets 
was swarming with children ; and it was not 
difficult to escape the notice of the school-in- 
spector on his occasional visits, especially as 
Bess was thirteen and David nearly fourteen 
years of age. The boy had begun to earn a few 
pence in the streets as soon as he could sell 
matches ; and he was now getting a precarious 
and uncertain living for himself by "hob-job- 
bing,” as he called it. The Sunday afternoons 
and evenings, when their mother’s work stood 
still for a few short hours, were their holidays. 
She had no longer a Sunday gown to wear ; but 


12 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


she never failed to put on her wedding-ring, 
which on week-days was carefully laid aside, 
lest it should get too much worn with her hard 
work. Bess and David felt that their mother 
was different from most other women in the 
street. She did not drink or swear or brawl ; 
and all their little world knew she was honest. 
They were vaguely fond of her good character ; 
and David was beginning to feel for her a pro- 
tecting tenderness he could not have put into 
words. 

For a long while neither of them knew that 
she was suffering from the fatal and painful 
disease of cancer, which had thrust its deep 
roots into her very life. When he did know it, 
David’s heart burned within him to see her 
standing bravely at her washing-tub, enduring 
her agony as patiently as she could. At last 
she was compelled to seek help from the parish ; 
and the relieving-officer, after visiting her, rec- 
ommended out-door relief. There was no doubt 
what the end must be, and not much uncer- 
tainty as to how soon the end must come. 
Four or five shillings a week would cost the par- 
ish less than taking the woman and her girl *— 


TO BEG I AM ASHAMED. 


13 


even if the boy was left to take care of liimself 
— into the house, and provide for her the neces- 
saries and comforts the medical officer would 
certainly pronounce indispensable. He advised 
a carefully reckoned dole of four and eightpence 
a week. 

Mrs. Fell was more tham satisfied. Separa- 
tion from her children would have been more 
bitter than death itself; but now she would 
have Bess and David with her as long as she 
could keep death at bay. The four shillings 
and eightpence would pay her rent, and leave 
almost fourpence a day for other expenses ! If 
she could only drag on through the winter, and 
keep a home for Bess and David, she would not 
murmur, however hard her pain was. She 
could bear worse anguish than she had yet 
borne for their sakes. 

But there was one enemy she had not thought 
of. The wasting caused by her malady pro- 
duced a. crav’ng hunger, worse to endure, if 
possible, than the malady itself. It was no 
longer possible to cheat herself, as she had been 
used to do in former years, with putting off her 
hunger until it changed into a dull faintness. 


IN I’RISON AND OUT. 


The gnawing pain showed itself too plainly in 
the desperate clinching of her teeth, and the 
wistful craving of her sunken eyes. Three- 
pence and three farthings a day — one penny 
and one farthing apiece — could do little towards 
maintaining a truce with this deadly foe, who 
must surely conquer her before the winter could 
be ended. 

‘‘ It’s just as if a wolf was gnawin’ me,” she 
said to David one evening, when he came in 
with a loaf of bread and a slice of cooked fish 
from a stall in the street ; ** not as ever I see a 
wolf, save once when father was alive, and you 
was a baby, and we all went to the Zoological 
Gardens for a holiday. It feels as if all the 
hunger I ever had had hidden itself away some- 
where, and heaped itself up, and is all let loose 
on me now. You children take your share first, 
for fear I’d eat it all, and not leave enough for 
you.” 

“It’s all for you and Bess, mother,” he an- 
swered : “ I ate my supper at the stall.” 

He did not say that he had made his supper 
of a crust of mouldy bread he had found lying 
in the street, and was still as hungry as a grow- 


TO BEG I AM ASHAMED. 


15 


ing lad generally is. Like his mother, he was 
quite used to disregard the urgent claims of his 
appeti’^e. But he sat down at the end of her 
ii oning -hoard, and watched her by the feeble 
light of the candle as she greedily devoured the 
food he had brought. It seemed as if his eyes 
were opened to see her more clearly than he 
had ever done before, and her face was indelibly 
impressed upon his memory. For the first 
time, as it appeared to him, he noticed her thin, 
sunken cheeks; her scanty hair turning gray; 
her eager, bright eyes; and the suffering that 
filled her whole face. The tears dimmed his 
sight for an instant, and a slight shiver ran 
through him, as he gazed intently on her. 

“ Mother,” he said, “ I only took fourpence 
all day for running two errands, for all I’ve 
been on the lookout sharp. Mother, I must 
take to beggin’.” 

" No, no ! ” she answered, looking up for a 
moment from the food she was so eagerly eat- 
ing. 

“ I must,” he went on : there’s lots o’ money 
to be got that way. They all says so. I 
couldn’t make myself look hungrier than I am ; 


i6 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

and ril tell the truth, as you*re dyin’ of a caii' 
cer, ay ! and dyin’ of hunger. I know there’d 
be folks as would help us. I hate the thought 
of it as much as you ; but it’s better me than 
Bess. Little Bess ’ud be frightened,” he ad- 
ded, looking, at his ragged sister, for whose sake 
he had fought many a battle, and borne many a 
beating in the streets. 

never thought it ’ud come to beggin’,” 
said his mother in a sorrowful, faltering voice. 

^‘Nor me,” continued David; ‘‘but there’s 
hardly no work for such as me as don’t know 
nothink. I’d have chose to be a carpenter like 
father; but there’s no chance of that. Don’t 
you cry, mother : you’ve done your best for us, 
and it’s my turn to do my best for you ; and 
beggin’s the best as I can do.” 

David felt it a bitter pass to come to. Un- 
taught and ignorant as he was, he had his own 
dream of ambition to be a carpenter, and earn 
wages like his father. He had gone now and 
then to a night-school, and learned^ after a 
fashion, to read and write a little; bat there 
was no school where a ragged boy I Ve him 
could learn any kind of hand' craft b} which 


TO BEG I AM ASHAMED. 1 7 

he could earn a livelihood. If there nad been 
such a place, how gladly would he have gone to 
it, and how heartily would he have set himself 
to work I There was no one to blame, perhaps ; 
but still he felt it to be a hard and bitter lot to 
turn out as a beggar. 

‘‘I’ll do it,” he said, after a long silence, — 
“not just round here, you know, mother; but 
out in the country, where folks ain’t all in such 
a hurry. I’ll take care of the police, and I’ll 
be back again afore Sunday; and you’ve got 
Bess with you, so as you won’t be lonesome. 
If I’ve luck, I’ll try again next week. There’s 
kind rich folk as ’ud do somethink for you, if 
they only knew ; and I’ll go and find ’em out. 
Don’t you take on and fret, mother. It ain’t 
thievin’, you know.” 

“ I’ll think about it in the night, Davy,” she 
answered sadly. 

In the painful, wakeful hours of the night, 
the poor mother thought of her boy tramping 
the roads in his ragged clothing and with his 
almost bare feet, and stopping the passers-by to 
ask for alms. It had been the aim of her long- 
aborious life to save herself and her children 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


iS 

from beggary. Oh, if this cruel malady had 
only spared her another two or three years, 
until David had been more of a man, and Bess 
a grown-up girl ! She could have laid down to 
die thankfully then, though now she had a 
terrible dread of dying. But, as far as she 
could see, there was nothing else to be done 
than to let David try his luck. There were 
good rich folks, as he said, if he could only 
find them. She must let him go and search 
for them. 

“You may go,” she said in the morning, 
after they had eaten together the few fragments 
her hunger had been able to spare the night 
before ; “ and God bless you, Davy ! Don’t you 
never do nothirik save beg. That’s bad enough ; 
but remember, both of yer, what I always said, 
* Keep thy hands from pickin’ and stealin’.’ 
Them’s good words to go by. And, Davy, 
come back as soon as you can; for I’ll be 
hungrier for a sight of you than I am for 
victuals. Always tell out your tale quiet and 
true, as your mother’s dyin* of cancer and 
famishin’ with hunger; and if they answer 
‘ No,’ or shakes their heads, turn away at once, 


TO BEG I AM ASHAMED. 


and try somebody else. Don’t stop folks as are 
in a hurry. Kiss me afore you go, Davy.” 

It seemed a solemn thing to do. He felt 
half-choked, and could not speak a word as he 
bent down to kiss her tenderly. He put his 
arm round his sister’s neck, and kissed her 
too ; and then, catching up his threadbare cap, 
he went to the door trying to whistle a cheery 
street tune. He paused in the doorway, and 
looked back on them. 

‘‘Good-by, mother,” he cried; “don’t you 
fret after me.” 


20 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


CHAPTER IE 

A boy’s SENTENCE. 

AVID was in no haste to enter upon his 



I y new calling. He walked on until he had 
left the busier street far behind him, and had 
come upon the open and quieter roads in the 
suburbs. Here and there trees were growing 
on the inner side of garden-walls, and stretched 
out their leafy branches, tinted with autumn 
^olors, over the side-paths along which he pur- 
sued his unknown way. The passers-by were 
more leisurely than those in the city, and occa- 
sionally gave him a glance, as if they both saw 
and noticed him, — such a glance as he never 
met amidst the crowds who jostled one another 
in the thoroughfares he was accustomed to. 
This observation made him feel shy, and more 
averse than ever to begin his unwelcome task. 


A boy’s sentence. 


21 


It was past noonday before he could bring him- 
self to stop a kindly-looking lady, who had 
looked pleasantly on him, and to beg from her 
help for his mother. 

His first appeal was successful, and gave 
him fresh courage to cry again. The kind- 
hearted woman had helped him to take the first 
step downwards. .He met with rebuffs, and felt 
downcast and ashamed ; but he also met with 
persons who gave him money to get rid of his 
pinched face, and others who believed his story, 
though he was several miles from home, and 
bestowed upon him a penny or two, feeling 
they had done all they were called upon to do 
for a perishing fellow-creature. Not one took 
any steps to verify his story, but passed on, 
and soon forgot the ragged lad, or remembered 
him with a pleasant glow of satisfaction in 
having discharged a Christian duty. 

By the time night fell, David was ten miles 
from home, and felt foot-sore and weary; for 
his worn-out shoes, bought at some rag-mart, 
chafed his feet, and did not even keep out the 
dust of the dry roads. But he had taken three 
shillings and eightpence; and he counted the 


22 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


coppers from one hand to another with uUiOid 
/oyfulness. So much money he had never pos- 
sessed at one time in his whole life ; and, when 
he lay down to rest in a lodging-house in a back 
street of the town he had reached by nightfall, 
he could not sleep soundly, partly from delight, 
and partly from the feir of being robbed. If 
he had luck like this, he would go home rich on 
Saturday night. Early in the morning he 
started off again to pursue his new calling, 
which was quickly losing its sense of degrada- 
tion. If begging was so profitable a business, 
and he had no chance of being trained for any 
other by which he could earn honest wages, it 
was no wonder that the boy should choose beg- 
gary rather than starvation. David began to 
feel that there was less chance of dying of cold 
or hunger. 

It was a pleasant autumn day, and numbers 
of people were about the roads, sauntering 
leisurely in the warm and bright sunshine. 
Again many of them were willing enough to 
give a penny to the half -shy boy who asked in 
a quiet tone for alms. He had not fallen into 
any professional whine as yet ; and he was easily 


A boy’s sentence. 


23 


repulsed, - -so easily that some, who refused at 
first to g.ve, called after him to come back. 
There was a touching air of misery about his 
thin, overgrown frame and pinched face, which 
appealed silently for help. He was willing, he 
said, to clean boots or clean steps, or do any 
other job that could be found for him as a labor- 
test ; but very few persons took the trouble to 
find him work to do. It was much easier to 
take a penny out of the purse, drop it into his 
hand, and pass on, with a feeling of satisfaction 
of at once getting rid of a painful object, and of 
appeasing the conscience, which seemed about 
to demand that some remedy should be found 
for abject poverty like his. Possibly it did not 
occur to any of these well-meaning and charita- 
ble persons, that they were aiding and encour- 
tging the poor lad to break one of the laws of 
the country. 

Whilst it was still day, though the sun was 
sinking in the sky, David sat down under a 
hedge to count over his heavy load of pence, 
which threatened to be too weighty for his 
ragged pockets. He had now five shillings’ 
woj th of copper, and he did not know where to 


24 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


exchange them for silver. He placed his old 
cap between his feet, and dropped in the coins 
one after another, handling them with an almost 
wild delight. How rich he would be to go home 
to his mother, if he had equal luck on his way 
back! Five shillings for two days’ begging! 
Now that he had found out how easy and 
profitable it was, and how little risk attended it 
if you only kept out of sight of the police, his 
mother and Bess should never know want again. 
He felt very joyous, and his joy found vent in 
clear, shrill whistling of the tunes he had 
learned from street-organs. He was whistling 
through the merriest one he knew, when a hand 
was laid heavily on his shoulder ; and, looking 
up, he saw the familiar uniform of a policeman. 

‘‘You’re in fine spirits, my lad,” he said. 
“ What’s this you’re crowing over, eh } Where 
did you get all those coppers in your cap.? 
How did you come by them, eh .? ” 

David could not speak, though he tried to 
seize and hide away his gains ; but in vain. 
The policeman picked up his cap, and weighed 
it in his hand. 

“ You’ve been begging on the roads,” he said, 


A boy's sentence. 


25 


in a matter-of-course manner, *‘and you must 
come along with me. We’ll give you a night’s 
lodging for nothing, I promise you. We must 
put a stop to this sort of thing.” 

Still David neither moved nor spoke. This 
sudden reversal of all his gladness and prospects 
paralyzed him. He had known al*. the while 
that any policeman had the power to take him 
up for begging, and lock him for the night in a 
police-cell, and charge him with his offence 
before a magistrate. Not a few of his acquaint- 
ances had been in jail, and they mostly said it 
was for begging. The thought of his mother 
fretting and longing for him at home, and the 
grief and terror she would feel if he did not get 
back on Saturday night, as he had promised, 
flashed across him. The policeman was busy 
counting over the heap of coppers, and David 
saw his chance, and seized it. He sprang to 
his feet, and fled away with as fast steps as if 
he had been fleeing for his life. 

But it was of no avail to try to escape from 
the strong and swift policeman, who instantly 
pursued him. David was weak and tired, and 
could not Iiave run far if it had been for his 


26 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


life. He felt himself caught firmly by the 
collar, and shaken, whilst two or three passers- 
by stood still, witnessing his capture. 

“ You young rascal ! ” said the policeman, 
** you’re only making it all the worse for your- 
self. Here’s five shillings and more in his 
cap,” he went on, addressing the by-standers ; 
** and ril be bound he’s been begging along the 
roads as if he hadn’t a farthing. That’s how 
the public is imposed on. Five shillings I and 
I don’t earn more than four shillings a day. 
There’s a shame for you ! ” 

“ Ay, it is a shame ! ” echoed one of the 
spectators, ** a big lad of his age, that ought to 
be at honest work, earning his own bread ! ” 

“ Nobody’s ever taught me how to work ! ” 
sobbed David, standing bewildered and ashamed, 
the centre of the gathering crowd. 

** We’ll teach you that in jail^ my fine fel- 
low,” said the policeman, marching him off, 
followed by a train of rough lads, which grew 
larger and noisier until they reached the police- 
station, and David was led in out of their sight 
It was a dreary night for David. Thcie was 
no bed in the cell, and no food was given to 


A BOY'S SENTENCE. 


27 


him In his anxiety to save all he could to 
carry home with him, he had not tasted a 
morsel since morning; and his meal then had 
been nothing but a pennyworth of bread, which 
he had taken reluctantly from his treasure. He 
had been thinking of buying his supper, and 
what it would cost him, when his gains had 
been seized from him, and handed over to the 
custody of the police-superintendent. He was 
weary too, foot-sore, and worn out with his long 
tramp. But neither his hunger nor fatigue 
pressed upon him with most bitterness. He 
crouched down in a corner of the cell, and 
thought of his mother and Bess looking out for 
him all Saturday, and waiting, and watching, 
and listening for him to open the door, and 
never seeing him at all ! His mother had said 
she would be hungrier for a sight of him than 
for bread! Would they send him to jail for 
begging ? Boys had been sent there for three 
days or a week, and his mother would be fret- 
ting all that time. He would lose his money 
too, and go home as penniless as he left it 
He hid his face in his hands, and wept bitterly 
till his tears were exhausted, and a raging head* 


28 


IN PRISON AND OUT 


ache foilawea At times he slumbered a little, 
sobbing heavily in his short and troubled sleep. 
When he woke he felt the pangs of hunger 
sharper than usual ; for he had been nearly a 
night and a day without tasting food, and his 
hunger made him think again of his mother. 
Hungry, weary, and bewildered, with an aching 
head and a heart full of care and bitterness, 
David passed through the long and weary hours 
of the night. 

It was after mid-day before food was pro 
vided for him, and then he could not eat it. 
He felt sick with dread of the moment when 
he should be taken before the magistrate. He 
had seen other prisoners summoned and led 
away to receive their doom ; but his turn 
seemed long in coming. At last it came. He 
obeyed the call of his name, and found himself, 
dizzy-headed and sick at heart, standing in a 
large room, with a policeman beside him. 
There was a singing in his ears, through which 
he listened to the charge made against him, 
and to the policeman in the witness-box giving 
his evidence. 

“Have you any thing to say for yourself?*' 


A boy’s sentence. 


29 


asked a voice in front of him ; and David 
raised his dim eyes to the face of the magis- 
li ate, but did not answer, though his lips moved 
a little. 

Were you begging 1 ” asked the magistrate 
again. 

** Yes,” answered David with a violent effort ; 
** but I am not a thief, sir : I never stole a 
farthing.” 

“Is there any previous charge against this 
boy } ” inquired the magistrate. 

A second policeman stepped into the witness- 
box, and David turned his dazed eyes upon him. 
He had never seen him before. 

“I have a previous charge of stealing iron 
against the prisoner” — 

“ It’s not true ! ” cried out David in a voice 
shrill with terror. “ I never was a thief. 
Somebody ask my mother.” 

“ Silence ! ” said the officer who had him in 
charge, with a sh'^rp grip of his arm. '‘You 
must not interrupt the court.” 

“ He was convicted of theft before your 
worship six months ago,” pursued the police- 
man in the box taking no notice of David’s 


30 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


interruption. “ He went then by the name of 
John Benson, and was sentenced to twenty-one 
days.” 

** Have you any thing more to say ? ” asked 
the magistrate, looking again at David. 

**lt wasn’t me!” he answered vehemently. 
** He’s mistook me for some other boy. I never 
stole nothing, and I never begged afore. You 
ask my mother. Oh, what will become of my 
mother and little Bess ? ” 

*‘You should have thought of your mother 
before you broke the laws of your country,” 
said the magistrate. ‘‘This neighborhood is 
infested with beggars, and we must put a stop 
to the nuisance. I shall send you to jail for 
three calendar months, when you will be taught 
a trade by which you may earn an honest liveli- 
hood.” 

David was hustled away, and another case 
called. His had occupied scarcely four minutes. 
The (lay was a busy one, as there had been a 
large fair held in the district ; and there was no 
more time to be spent upon a boy clearly guilty 
of begging, and who had been convicted of 
theft. No one doubted for a moment this latter 


A BOY*S SENTENCE. 


31 


Btatemcnt, or thought it in the least necessary 
to inquire if the boy’s vehement denial had any 
truth in it. Another prisoner stood at the bar, 
and David Fell was at once forgotten. 

It seemed to David as if he had been suddenly 
struck deaf. No other sound reached his brain 
after he heard the words, *‘To jail for three 
months." Three months in jail ! Not to see 
his mother for three months ! Perhaps never 
to see her again ; for who could tell that she 
would live for three months ? It was only a few 
minutes since he heard his name called out 
before he was hurried into court ; but it might 
have been many years. He felt as if his mother 
might have been dead long ago; as if it was 
very long ago since he left home, with her 
voice sounding in his ears. He seemed to hear 
her saying, “God bless you, David!" and the 
magistrate’s voice directly following it, “ I shall 
send you to jail for three months." His be- 
wildered brain kept repeating, “ God bless you, 
Davy! I shall send you to jail for three 
months." It was as if some one was mocking 
him with these words. 


IN PRISON AND OUT 


CHAPTER III. 


THE WEDDING-RING IN PAWN. 

O doubt it was somebody’s duty to infc rm 



Mrs. Fell of David’s conviction, and sen- 


tence to three months’ imprisonment ; but 
whether the official notice was sent to the 
mother of the boy who had been previously 
convicted of theft, or failed to reach David’s 
mother through the post, we do not know. She 
never received the information. 

Mrs. Fell and Bess f?lt the time pass heavily 
while he was away. The poor woman had 
always been more careful of her children than 
the neighbors were ; and she had never allowed 
Bess to play about the streets, if David was not 
at hand to take care of her. Bess was growing 
a tall and pretty girl now, and needed more 
than ever to have somebody to look after hei. 


THE WEDDING-RING IN PAWN. 33 

So she was compelled to stay in-doors, shut up 
in the close and tainted atmosphere and the 
dim light ol their miserable home. Mrs. Fell 
did a little washing still by stealth ; but she 
was fearful of the relieving-officer finding her at 
her tub, and taking off her allowance. She 
could earn only a few pence, and that with 
sharp pain ; but the pangs of hunger were 
sharper. Bess was old enough, and willing to 
help, though she could not earn sufficient 
altogether for her own maintenance. Still, if 
David should happen to come back with a little 
money to go on with, all would be well for 
another week or two, and some work might turn 
up for him. 

Mrs. Fell was very lonesome without her boy, 
and sorely did she miss him. She was one of 
those mothers who think nothing of their girls 
in comparison with their sons ; and David had 
always been good to her, and cheered her up 
when she was most downcast. She fancied he 
was growing like his father ; and the sound of 
liis voice or his footstep brought back the mem- 
ories of happier days. David had promised to 
be back on Saturday, but she almost expected 


34 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


him on Friday night; but Friday night passed 
by, and David was still away. During the 
long, sleepless hours of darkness, she was think- 
ing of him ceaselessly, little dreaming that her 
boy was spending his first night in jail. 

Saturday passed slowly by ; and, when even- 
ing came, Mrs. Fell set her door ajar, and sat 
just within it in the dark, looking out into the 
lighted passage and staircase, common to all 
the lodgers. David would be sure to whistle as 
he came down the street, and her ear would 
eatch the sound while he was still a long way 
off. She felt no hunger to-night, and was 
scarcely conscious of her pain. All her thoughts 
and cares were centred on her boy. 

‘‘ He'd never break his promise, Bess,” she 
said softly. “ He knows Fm hungering for a 
sight of him, and, whatever luck he's had, he's 
sure to come home to-night. Fve wished a 
thousand times as Fd never let him go ; but it's 
over now, and he shall never go again, if we can 
only keep him from it. We'll get more wash- 
ing done, you and me : won't we, Bess ? And 
maybe David will have better luck in getting 
jobs to do. O my lad, my lad ! But he'll be 
here very soon now.” 


THE WEDDING-RING IN PAWN. 


35 


She checked the sobs which hindered her 
from hearing, and sat still for some minutes, 
listening, with strained ears, to catch his whistle 
amid the hubbub of sounds that noised about 
her. At last she sent Bess to the street-door to 
look up the narrow, ill-lighted street, to the 
corner with the brilliantly illuminated spirit- 
vaults, round which David might come any mo- 
ment with the proceeds of his begging expedi- 
tion. Bess had some bright visions of her own, 
based upon the stories of successful beggary 
which the neighbors told to one another ; and 
she was as full of impatient anticipation as her 
mother. 

*‘It’s almost like the time I used to watch 
for father, Bess, before we were wed,” said 
Mrs. Fell plaintively; “and I was nevermore 
on the fidgets then than I am now for Davy, 
poor lad ! I can’t keep myself still a moment. 
Father used to wear a plush weskit as was as 
soft as soft could be, and I’d dearly like Davy 
to have one like it. I priced one in a shop one 
day ; but it was more than I could give when I 
was in full work. And, Bess, I’d like you to 
have a pink cotton gown, such as I was wed in 


36 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


Rut there ! it’s no use to think on such things. 
It’s God’s will, and he knows best. If my lad 
’ud only come in, I should care for nothing.” 

Bess went off to the door, stepping softly 
past the front room, where their next neighbor, 
Blackett, lived, and gazed up to the stream of 
light shining across the road through the tavern- 
window. She stood there for a few minutes in 
silence. 

“He’s cornin’, mother,” cried Bess quietly; 
and the poor woman’s heart throbbed painfully 
as she leaned back against the wall almost faint 
from joy, whilst Bess ran eagerly up the street 
towards the light, which for a brief moment 
had irradiated the figure of her brother. But it 
was not David whom she met, though it was a 
boy of his age and size ; and Bess felt neai 
crying out aloud when she saw who it was. 
Still he was an old companion and playfellow, 
and as nearly a friend as Blackett’s son could 
be; for he was Roger Blackett, whose father, 
living in ‘■he front room on the ground-floor, 
close against the door through which every one 
went to and fro, was the terror of all the in- 
mates of the crowded house. 


THE WEDDING-RING IN PAWN. 37 

Roger, have you seen our Davy any- 
where ? ” she inquired. 

“ No, I haven’ t,'’ he answered. “ Is father in 
the house, Bess ? ” 

‘‘Ay,” she said. 

“Then I’ll stay outside,” he went on. “He 
does nothing but bang me, and curse at me for 
an idle dog and a cowardly soft. He’s drove 
the rest of ’em into thievin’, and he’ll never let 
me a-be till he’s drove me to it. I was very 
near it to-night, Bess.” 

“Oh, don’t!” she cried, “don’t! I’d never 
do worse than beg, if I was you. I know 
David ’ud die afore he’d steal, and so ’ud 
mother. We’d all clem to death afore we’d 
take to thievin’.” 

“I’d have been drove to it long ago,” said 
Roger, “if it hadn’t been along of you and 
your mother, Bess. Father’s always larfin’ at 
folks like you settin’ up to be honest ; and he’s 
always say in’ as I haven’t got a drop of real 
blood in me. I’m bound to be drove to it, 
however long I fight shy of it. Only it ’ud vex 
you, Bess.” 

“Ah!” she answered earnestly, “ mother ’ud 


38 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


never, never let David or me speak to you 
again. She’s set dead agen thievin’, mother is. 
She won’t let us know any jail-birds. You 
see,” continued Bess with an air of piide, 
*^none of us has ever been in trouble, — up 
before the justices, you know. We’ve never 
had nothink to do with the police, ’cept civility ; 
and the police has nothink to do with us. 
Better starve nor steal, mother says.” 

But Bess had been so long in the street, that 
Mrs. Fell’s impatience had conquered her. She 
had crept to the street-door, and was making 
her way painfully towards them. 

“Bess, is it Davy.?” she called. “Be sharp, 
and bring him here.” 

“ We’re coming, mother,” cried Bess. “ It’s 
only Roger. You go back, and let him come 
into our room for a bit, for company. You 
come with me, Roger, and talk a bit to mother : 
she’s frettin’ after Davy so ! You ask her 
about the parson’s garden, and the place where 
she used to live, and any thing you can think 
of, for a bit, till Davy comes.” 

The t ivo children stole softly past the closed 
door of the front room, and hid themselves in 
the darkness of Mrs. Fell’s kitchen. 


THE WEDDING-RING IN PAWN. 


39 


“It’s nobody but poor Roger,” said Bess 
softly. “Davy’s not come yet, and Roger’s 
afeard of his father till he gets dead drunk. 
Let him stay with us a bit, mother.” 

There had always been a dread in Mrs. Fell’s 
mind of her children growing too intimate with 
Roger Blackett, whose two elder brothers were 
openly pursuing the successful calling of 
thieves, with occasional periods of absence 
supposed to be passed in prison ; but she had 
been too much afraid of Blackett to forbid all 
intercourse with his sons. Roger was nearly 
fourteen, and had not been in trouble yet ; so 
she could not very well refuse to let him enter 
her room. 

“ He’s welcome,” she said coldly, “ as long as 
he keeps himself honest.” 

“That won’t be for long,” muttered Roger: 
“father’s always a-goin’ on with me to keep 
myself, and I’ve got no way o’ keepin’ myself, 
save thievin’. He’s getting angrier with me 
every day.” 

“But there’s God’ll be angry with you if 
you thieve,” said Mrs. Fell; “and, if you make 
him angry, he can do worse at you than your 
father. You ought to be afeard of him.” 


40 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


** Where is he ? " asked Roger. 

'‘He lives in heaven, where good folks go 
when they die,” she answered ; “ but he sees 
every thing, and can do every thing. Every 
thing as happens is just what he pleases. He 
could make us all rich and well and happy in a 
moment o’ time, if he chose : but it’s his will 
we should be poor and ill and miserable, and 
it’s all right somehow; so we must keep still, 
and believe as it’s all right. I know I often 
says, ‘It’s God’s will,’ and it seems a little 
better. But what I was going to tell you is, 
that God won’t ever have thieves in heaven. 
There’s a great pit somewhere, full of fire and 
brimstone, where all wicked folks go ; and, if 
you thieve, you’ll go there. I don’t know ex- 
actly where it is, or how it is ; but it’s all gospel, 
they say. It’s worse than hundreds of jails.” 

The woman’s low, weak, faltering voice, 
uttering these terrible words in the darkness, 
made Roger’s heart shrink with a strange awe 
and dread. He was glad to feel Bess close 
beside him, and to know that she was listening 
as well as himself. 

“God’s worse than father,” he said, trem 
bling. 


THE WEDDING-RING IN PAWN. 


41 


‘*No, no/’ continued Mrs. Fell. ‘‘I’ve heard 
hdks preachin’ in the streets, and some among 
'em said he loves us all somehow. I heard one 
of ’em saying over and over again, ‘ God is love.’ 
And he’d some little tickets, about as big as 
pawn-tickets, with those words printed plain on 
’em, and he gave one to everybody as asked 
him. I s’pose there’s some truth in it. ‘ God 
is love,’ I say to myself hundreds o’ times in 
the night, when I lie awake for pain ; and 
there’s comfort in it. Ay, when my pains are 
worst, and when I’m faintin’ with hunger, if I 
say, * God is love,’ it helps me on a bit. It’s all 
I know, and I don’t know that very clear.” 

** Do God love everybody ? ” inquired Roger 
anxiously. 

** Yes,” she answered. 

Do he love father } ” he asked again. 

‘‘Yes, I s’pose so,” she said in a tone of 
doubt. 

“Then I don’t think much of God,” went on 
Roger. “ He didn’t ought to love father. He 
ought to put him in that pit o’ fire and brim- 
stone ; for he’s a thief, and he wants to make 
me a thief. And, if he loved any on us, he’d 


42 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


never let us be drove to thievin’ and beggin’ 
Folks say as Davy’s gone a-beggin’- No: God 
loves rich folks maybe; but he don’t care a 
rush for poor folks.” 

I can’t tell how it is,” moaned Mrs. Fell : 
‘‘only it’s a comfort to me to say, ‘ God is love,’ 
and make believe it’s true. And my Davy’ll 
never be a thief, Roger, — never! If folks do 
say he’s gone a-beggin’, they can’t say worse of 
him. Ah, I wish he’d only come 1 ” 

But though she and Bess sat up till long 
after midnight, and until every inmate of the 
overcrowded tenement had returned to their 
miserable dens, and there was not a sound to 
drown the echo of any footstep coming down 
the street, there was still no sign of David’s 
coming. Bess fell asleep at last on the floor at 
her mother’s feet ; but she kept awake, shiver- 
ing with cold and pain, and heart-sick with 
vague terrors as to what should keep the boy 
away. 

As day after day passed on, bringing no 
tidings of David, the mother’s anguish of soul 
grew almost intolerable. It seemed to over- 
master her bodily pain, and render her nearly 


THE WEDDING-RING IN PAWN. 


43 


Insensible to it Every morning she wandered 
about, asking news of her boy from everybody 
who had eve.* known him, until her strength 
was worn out; and then she would stand for 
hours, leaning against the wall at the street- 
corner, looking along the road, and straining 
her eyes to catch some glimpse of him amid 
the ever-changing stream of people passing by. 
She could no longer bring herself to stand at 
her washing-tub, cheating the parish by earning 
a few extra pence for herself by the toil of her 
hands. Little by littk, all that was left of her 
few possessions found their way to the familiar 
pawn-shop, till her room was as bare of furni- 
ture as it was possible to be, and yet be a 
human dwelling-place. 

There was one treasure she had never parted 
with, however pressing and bitter her necessi- 
ties had been through her long years of widow- 
hood. It was the one possession which had 
been the pride of her heart This was her 
wedding-ring, of good solid gold, bought for 
her and placed upon her hand by the husband 
she had lost twelve years ago. She had been 
too cai sful of it to wear it while at work ; but 


44 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


every evening and every Sunday her children 
had been used to see the golden glitter of it on 
hei finger, and to regard it with a sort of rever 
ential delight. It was the visible sign to them 
of their dead father, and of the good times 
their mother could tell them of, but which they 
had not known themselves. They had gone to 
bed many a night supperless that they might 
keep the mother’s ring from the pawn-shop, and 
run no risk of losing it. 

But things had come to such a pass during 
David’s absence that the ring must go. It was 
still little worn, not much thinner than when 
David Fell, the carpenter, had wedded his 
young wife with it. Next to any grief or 
calamity befalling her children, this was the 
sharpest trial Mrs. Fell could undergo. Bess 
helped her to crawl to the pawnbroker’s shop, 
— for she would not trust it even to Bess, — 
and she laid it down on the counter with a 
pang nearly heart-breaking. The pawnbroker 
fastened a number to it, gave her a ticket, and 
pushed a few shillings towards her. 

‘‘Take care of it ! ” she cried, with vehement 
urgency in her tone ; “ take care of it. I shall 


THE WEDDING-RING IN PAWN. 


45 


redeem it : God in heaven knows I shall redeem 
it some day. It’s God's will ! ” she sobbed, her 
dim, cage! eyes following it as the pawnbroker 
opened a drawer, and dropped it carelessly 
among a heap of pledges similar to it. 


46 


TN PRISON AND OUT. 


CHAPTER IV 
OLD Euclid’s hoard. 

S Mrs. Fell, leaning heavily on the arm 



2 \ of Bess, crept homeward, after her sor- 
rowful visit to the pawnbroker, they saw an old 
man, one of their neighbors, making his way, 
with a shambling and limping tread, along the 
uneven pavement before them. The lamps 
were lit down the narrow and dirty street, and 
the light fell on the dingy figure of the old man 
as he passed under them with his stooping 
shoulders and his long, rugged locks of gray 
hair falling below his battered and broken hat, 
round which still clung a little band of black 
material that had not become quite brown with 
rain and sunshine. He was a small man, and 
seemed to have withered and shrunk into a 
more meagre thinness than when his clothes 


OLD Euclid’s hoard. 


47 


had been bought, now many years ago. The 
face under the battered hat was of a yellow 
brownness, and much wrinkled, with shaggy 
eyebrows hanging over his eyes. There was a 
gleam in these dim and sunken eyes, as if it 
was possible for him to smile; but the possi- 
bility seldom became a fact. He looked half 
asleep as he shuffled along ; and in a low, husky 
voice he was dreamily crying ** Cresses,” but 
not at all as though he expected any one of his 
neighbors to spend a penny on his perishable 
stock. 

“There’s poor old Euclid!” said Mrs. Fell 
in a tone of pity, as if she was looking at one 
whose circumstances were as bad, if not worse, 
than her own. 

The old man’s baptismal name was Euclid, 
his surname Jones ; but in the multitude of 
Joneses his surname had long been lost, and 
was almost forgotten. He . was the son of a 
village schoolmaster in some quiet spot in 
Wales, who had called his only child Euclid, 
with a vague and distant hope of seeing him 
some day a distinguished mathematical scholar. 
But the schoolmaster and his wife bad both 


48 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


died before little Euclid had fairly mastered the 
alphabet, and from that time he had lived 
among the neighbors, now with one and now 
with another, passing from cottage to cottage, 
until he was old enough to scare crows and 
tend pigs. Little learning did Euclid get at 
these early employments. In course of time 
he drifted up to London, where he worked on 
the roads till he was disabled by an accident 
He had married a wife, who bore him eight 
children, born and bred under every chance 
against health and life, and dying, all but one, 
just as they grew old enough to do something 
for themselves, after they had tested their 
father^s love and endurance to the utmost. His 
wife was dead also. He had buried them all 
in their own coffins, unassisted by the parish, a 
remembrance which stirred up his downcast 
heart with a feeling of honest pride whenever 
it crossed his brain. 

Life had brought to Euclid an enigma to 
solve, stiffer and more intricate than the most 
abstruse mathematical problem, — how to keep 
himself and his off the parish during life, and 
how to get buried, when all was over, w'thout 


OLD Euclid’s hoard. 


49 


the same dreaded and degrading aid. The 
problem was but partially solved yet: there 
still remained his youngest child and himself 
to die and be buried. 

Euclid turned in at the same door as that to 
which Mrs. Fell was painfully creeping. He 
lived in the one attic of the house, having the 
•advantage over Mrs. Fell in more light and 
fresher air, and in the quietness of a story to 
^hi.mself; but he possessed few other advan- 
tages. His household goods were as poor as 
hers had been before all that was worth pawn- 
ing had gone to the pawn-shop. The fireplace 
consisted of three bars of iron let into the 
chimney, with a brick on each side for a hob, on 
one of which stood a brown earthenware teapot 
simmering at the spout, as if the tea had been 
boiling for some time. There was a bed on the 
floor close by the handful of fire, and Euclid’s 
first glance fell upon it ; but it was empty, for 
a sickly-looking girl of eighteen was sitting on 
a broken chair before the fire, cowering over it 
with outstretched hands. She had wrapped 
herself in an old shawl, and was holding it 
tightly about her, as though she felt the chill 


50 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


of the November evening; but she smbed 
brigsciy when the old man’s wrinkled face and 
dim eyes met her gaze, as he stood in the door- 
way an instant, looking anxiously and sadly at 
lier. 

*'Come in, daddy, and shut the door,” she 
said cheerfully. ‘‘I’m not bad to-day; but 
you’re late, — later than ever. It’s gone six, * 
and I thought you would never, never come.” 

Folks did not care to buy creases this cold 
day,” he answered, his husky voice striving to 
soften itself into tenderness ; ** but, Victoria, 
my dear, you’ve not waited tea for me ^ ” 

should think I have,” she said, rising 
from the only chair, and compelling him with 
all her little strength to sit down on it, while 
she took an old box for her seat. “ I couldn’t 
relish the best o’ tea alone at this time o’ night, 
and you in the streets, daddy. So we’ll have it 
at once ; for it’s been made, oh ! hours ago, — 
at least, it’s near an hour by the clock. That 
clock’s real comj)any to me, father,” she added, 
looking proudly at a little loud-ticking clock 
against the wall, which seemed the best and 
busiest thing in the bare room. 


OLD EUCLID’3 hoard. 


51 


“ I ain’t got no ’erring for you, Victoria,” he 
said regretfully, nor nothing else for a relish, 
— nothing save a few creases, and they’d be too 
cold for your stomach, my dear. If you feel 
set on any thing. I’ll take a penny or two from 
our little store, you know. It’s all quite safe : 
isn’t it, my dear ? ” 

Yes, yes,” she answered, a shadow flitting 
across her face for a moment ; “ you needn’t 
never be afeard of that not being safe. I’m 
not set on any think, daddy.” 

‘‘How much is it now, Victoria?” he in- 
quired, his eyes glistening a little as he listened 
eagerly to her reply. 

“ It’s two pound, sixteen shilling, and nine- 
pence three farthings,” she answered without 
hesitation. “ I take good care of it.” 

“ I think we shall do it, Victoria,” he said, 
with an air of satisfaction ; “ and after that, my 
dear, there will be nobody but me ; and I’m not 
afeard but I’ll save enough for that. No, no : 
I shouldn’t like any on us to die like a scamp 
upon the parish, and be buried in a parish 
coffln.” 

Victoria had been reaching down the twa 


52 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


cracked cups and the loaf of bread from a 
corner cupboard; and now she stood for a 
moment looking wistfully into the fire, her pale, 
thin face flushed a little into almost delicate 
beauty. Under the pillow on which she rested 
her head every night, and on which it lay many 
a long hour of the wearyful day, there was 
always hidden a precious little store of money, 
slowly accumulating by a few pence at a time, 
— the fund that was to pay for her own coffin, 
and the other costs of her own poor funeral. 
She had made a shroud of coarse calico for her- 
self, and kept it carefully ready against the time i 
it would be needed. There was no question in j 
her mind, or her father’s, that this fund would | 
be needed probably before the next summer 
came. Her doctor, who was a druggist living 
in the next street, assured her that good living 
and better clothing and warmer lodging were 
all she needed; but he might as well have I 
ordered her to the south of France for ae i 
winter. It was Euclid’s chief anxiety now tnat 
the sum should grow as fast as possible, lest an i 
unusually severe winter might hasten on the 
necessity for it And to Victoria it was i 


OLD Euclid’s hoard. 


53 


matter of as much interest and care as to him, 
so often did she reckon up the cost of a coffin 
and a grave, and count over the money pro- 
vided to procure them for her. She thought of 
it again as she stood looking into the fire, and 
saw as vividly and fleetly as a flash of lightning 
her own funeral passing down the narrow, 
common staircase, the children trooping after 
it, but only her old and weeping father follow- 
ing as mourner. She stooped down, and kissed 
him, as if to comfort him beforehand for the 
grief that was to come. 

** Is any think ailin’ you, Victoria ? ” he in- 
quired in as gentle a tone as he could lower his 
voice to. 

‘‘Nothin’ fresh, daddy,” she answered: “only 
you’ll be lonesome when I’m gone.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Euclid. “ It’ll be a dark shop 
wi’out you, my dear.” 

He said no more, but sat slowly rubbing his 
legs up and down before the fire, while his 
memory travelled back over the twenty-five 
years that had passed since he was a strong 
man, able and willing to work hard and to live 
hard for the sake of his wife and children. 


54 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


Victoria saw him counting his children on his 
fingers, as he huskily muttered their names. 
He seemed to see them all, his boys and girls, 
who were gone out of this troublesome world 
down into the dark secret of the grave : they 
were all living in his memory, and his wife, 
too, who had trodden the same strange yet 
familiar road eighteen years ago. He had 
buried them all, and had never once taken a 
penny from the parish. His withered face lit 
up as the thought crossed his mind. 

‘‘Victoria,” he said, as if this recollection 
had reminded him of Mrs. Fell, “there’s a 
mort o’ trouble downstairs in the ground-floor 
back. There’s Mrs. Fell as bad off or worse 
than us, though she do take parish pay. 
There’s no luck in parish money, I know ; but 
she’s dead beat, I s’pose. 1 saw her cornin’ back 
from the pawn-shop, and she looked like death. 
There’s her.boy David away, and nobody knows 
where he’s gone to, and she’s almost heart- 
broke. I fcook the liberty o’ noticin’, and there’s 
not a scrap o’ fire in their room. So, Victoria, 
my dear, if you didn’t mind it, we might ask 
her up here a bit when we’ve done our tea. 


OLD Euclid’s hoard. 55 

There’s not enough for all, or we’d ask her to 
come up for her tea. But she’s got no fire, and 
we have ; and four of us will be warmer than 
two, if you didn’t mind it.” 

‘‘Mind it, daddy repeated Victoria. “I’d 
be right glad if she’ll come.” 

Many a time had Victoria glanced longingly 
into Mrs. Fell’s room as she passed the door, 
and wished she would call out, and invite her in. 
But Mrs. Fell had felt herself in a superior 
position to Euclid, — a laundress being surely of 
a higher social standing than a water-cress- 
seller, to say nothing of living on the ground- 
floor instead of the attic, — and she had taken 
but little notice of Euclid’s girl amid the con- 
stantly changing members who inhabited the 
house. Bess was better known to Victoria ; 
and David had many a time shown himself 
friendly, and run errands for her when she was 
too poorly to go out herself. To-night she 
' could not swallow a morsel after her father’s 
suggestion. As soon as tea was over, and the 
i cups and teapot put away, with every token of 
their poor meal, Euclid went downstairs to 
I caiT} his invitatior in person, whilst Victoria 


56 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


^irranged an empty box or two to serve as seati 
about the fire, upon which she put another tiny 
shovelful of coals. Her color came and went 
fitfully as she heard Mrs. Fell’s slow footstep 
mounting the steps leading to their attic, fol- 
lowed by her fathei and Bess ; and she received 
them shyly, but gladly, at the door. 

It’s very kind on you and Mr. Euclid, I’m 
sure,” panted Mrs. Fell, with the ghost of a 
smile on her face, “and I take it neighborly; 
and if there’s any thing as me and Bess can 
do” — 

“Please come and sit down in the chair,” 
said Victoria, interrupting her easily ; for she 
was still struggling for breath. She was soon 
seated in the chair, which was placed in front 
of the fire ; whilst Euclid sat on one side on an 
old box, with Bess and Victoria opposite on 
another. The flickering flame of the small fire 
shone upon their faces, and was the only light 
by which they saw each other. But in a few 
minutes they felt almost like old friends. 

“ She’s the last I’ve got,” said old Euclid to 
Mrs. Fell, nodding at Victoria, who was talking 
to Bess “ Her mother died on her, when she 


OLD Euclid’s hoard. 


57 


Jvere bom eighteen years ago. She were too 
weak to get the better on it, and she had to go 
I’d five little children when she died. Victoria’s 
got her complaint,” he went on, in a lower tone, 
“and she’s the last out o’ eight on them. Boys 
mxl gals, they’re all gone afore me.” 

“It’s His will as knows best, Mr. Euclid,” 
said Mrs. Fell, with a heavy sigh. 

“ I s’pose it is,” replied Euclid. “ I hope He 
knows ; for I’m sure I don’t. I’ve had no time 
for thinkin’ of nothink but how to keep off the 
parish. Not as I’d say a word agen a woman 
takin’ parish pay, a poor weakly woman like 
you. But it ’ud be a sore disgrace for a man to 
come on the parish even for his buryin’.” 

Mrs. Fell sighed again, and sat looking into 
the red embers of the fire sadly, as if she was 
seeing again the bright days of her married life. 

“ I never lost nobody, save my poor David, 
•— my husband, I mean,” she said ; “ and by good 
luck he were in a buryin’ club, and they gave 
him a very good funeral, — a hearse, and a 
mournin’-coach for me and the two children, 
and plumes ! But there’ll be nobody save the 
parish to bury me ; for Bess is only a child and 
David’s gone ” 


58 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


Where’s he gone to ? asked Victoria. i 

** He went out on a little journey nigh upon 
a month ago,” she answered ; and weVe never 
heard a word of him since he said * Good-by, 
mother.’ He’s never come back again. Some- ! 
think’s happened to him, I know; for he’s j 
always that good to me and Bess, you couldn’t 
think! I’m frettin’ after him all the while 
more than I can tell : it’s wastin’ me away. 
But it’s God’s will, as good folks say ; and 
there’s none on us as can fight agen him.” 

‘^And Bess says you’ve been forced to part 
wi’ your weddin’ ring,” Victoria replied, with a 
shy look of sympathy. 

The tears welled up into Mrs. Fell’s eyes, 
and Bess bowed her head in shame. For the 
first evening in her life, when she had no work 
to do, the poor woman felt that her finger had 
lost its precious sign of her married life. She 
might almost as well have been an unmarried 
woman, — one of those wretched creatures on 
whom she had always looked down with honest 
pride and a little hardness. She laid her right 
hand over her ?indecorated finger, and looked 
back into Victoria’s sympathizing face with an 
expression of bitter grief. 


OLD EUCLID’S HOARD. 


59 

** I’ll work till I drop to get it back,” cried 
Bess, with energy. 

“ I wisn my missis were alive now,” said 
Euclid. “I’m always a-wishin’ it; but she 
were a good woman, and she knew summat 
more about God than most folks, and about 
Him as died for us. I never was a scholar; but 
she could read, ay, splendid ! and she knew a 
mort o’ things. She taught me a lot, and I 
remembered them long enough to teach Victo- 
ria some of ’em. Victoria, my dear, there’s 
them verses as was your mother’s favorites, — 
them as I taught you when you was little. 
I’ve forgot ’em myself, Mrs. Fell ; but she’s got 
them all right and straight in her head, and she 
says them back to me now my memory’s gone. 
Sometimes I think it’s her mother a sayin’ of 
’em. ‘The Lord,’ you know, my dear.” 

Victoria’s face flushed again, and her voice 
trembled a little as she began to speak, whilst 
Bess fastened her dark eyes eagerly upon her ; 
and Euclid and Mrs. Fell, with their careworn 
and withered faces turned straight to the fire, 
nodded their heads at the close of each verse, 
as if uttering a silent “ Amen.” 


6o 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


“ The Lord is my shepherd : I shall not want 

‘^He maketh me to lie down in green pas- 
tures ; he leadeth me beside the still waters. 

He restoreth my soul ; he leadeth me in 
the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. 

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of 
the shadow of death, I will fear no evil ; for 
thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff they 
comfort me. 

“Thou preparest a table before me in the 
presence of mine enemies ; thou anointest my 
head with oil : my cup runneth over. 

“ Surely goodness and m« cy shall follow me 
all the days of my life ; and ^ W'll dwell in the 
house of the Lord forever.” 


LESSONS IN PRISON, 


6i 


CHAPTER V. 

LESSONS IN PRISON. 

I T was quite dark at night when the prison 
van containing David and other convicted 
offenders reached the jail to which they were 
committed. As yet he was still feeling be- 
wildered and confused; and the sound of heavy 
doors clanging after him as he passed through 
them, and the long, narrow passages along 
which he was led, only served to heighten his 
perplexity. He had hardly ever been within 
walls except those of the poor house which had 
been his home as long as he could remember, 
and the prison appeared immeasurably large as 
he dragged his weary footsteps along the stone 
flagging of the corridors. The spotless cleanli- 
ness of both floor and walls seemed also to re- 
move him altogether out of the world with 


62 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


which he was acquainted. The dirt and squalor 
of the old jails would have been more home- 
like to him. By the time his hair had been 
cropped close to his head, and the prison-garb 
put upon him in the place of his own familiar 
clothes, stained and tattered with long wear of 
them, he began to doubt his own identity. 
Was he really David Fell ? Could he be the 
boy who had hitherto led the freest life possible, 
roaming about the busy streets, with no person 
to forbid or to question him ? David Fell could 
not be he who was now locked up quite alone in 
a little cell, dimly lighted by a gas-jet, which it- 
self was locked up in a cage lest he should touch 
it. Not a sound came to his ears, let him listen 
as sharply as he could. Where was the old roll 
and roar of the streets, and the cries of children, 
and the shrill voices of women, and the din and 
tumult, and stir and life, to which he was accus- 
tomed } No dream as dreadful as this silence 
and solitude had ever visited him. 

For a long while he could not go to sleep, 
though his previous night in the police-station 
liad been one of wakefulness. His hammock 
was comfortable, more comfortable than any 


LESSONS IN PRISON. 


<55 

bed he had ever slept on, and his prison-rug 
was warm ; but the very comfort and warmth 
brought his mother to his mind, — his mother 
and little Bess. What were they doing now ? 
Were they shivering on their hard mattress, 
under their threadbare counterpane, which was 
all that was left to them to keep out the night’s 
chill ? Perhaps they were looking out for him. 
What day was it.? Was it not Saturday to- 
day.? And he had promised to be home on 
Saturday ! 

Oh, how different it would all have been if he 
had only escaped being caught ! He would have 
been at home by this time; and they could 
have had a bit of fire in the grate, and some- 
thing to make a feast of as they sat round it, 
whilst he told the story of his wanderings, 
and tried to describe all the rich, good folks 
who had been kind to him. Or if the magis- 
trate had taken away all the money, and let him 
go home on his promise never to go begging 
again, even that would have been nothing to this 
trouble. He fancied he could see his mother’s 
face, pale yet smiling, as she listened to his 
danger, and his escape from it ; and Bess, sit- 


64 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


ting on the floor, with shining eyes and clasped 
hands, hearkening eagerly to every word. Why 
had they sent him to jail ? At last he sobbed 
himself to sleep; but all through the night 
might be heard, if there was any ear to hear, 
the heavy, deep-drawn sob of the boy's over- 
whelmed heart. 

He was awakened early m cne morning, and 
briefly told what he must do before quitting his 
cell. Then, he ate his breakfast alone in the 
dreary solitude of the prison-walls, and the food 
almost choked him. It seemed to the boy, used 
to the wild, utter freedom of the streets, as if 
his very limbs were fettered, and that he could 
not move either hand or foot freely. His body 
did not seem tp belong to himself any longer. 
He was neither hungry nor cold, as he might 
have been at home ; but his head ached, and his 
heart was sore with thoughts of his mother. He 
was unutterably sick and sad. Cold and hun- 
ger were almost like familiar friends to him ; 
but he did not know this faintness and heavi- 
ness, this numbness which kept him chained to 
the prison-seat, and made it appear an impossi- 
bility that a day or two ago he was rambling 


LESSONS IN PRISON. 


65 


abovt as long as he pleased, and where he 
pleaied, in the wide, free world, outside the 
prison-walls. Were there any boys like him 
still running and leaping and shouting out 
}’ ondei in the autumn sunshine ? 

It was Sunday morning, and he was left 
longer than usual to himself. He was taken 
to the chapel, and sat in his place during the 
reading of the prayers and the sermon which 
followed ; but not a word penetrated to his 
bewildered brain. It was much the same on 
the week-day when he went to school. He 
knew a little both of reading and writing; but 
he could not control his attention to make use 
of what he knew. He said the alphabet stupid- 
ly, and wrote his first copy of straight lines 
badly. He could not bring himself to think of 
these things. His mind was wandering sadly 
round the central thought that he was in jail, 
and what would become of his mother and little 
Bess without him. 

David waj naturally a bright boy, active in 
mind and body; but he was crushed by the 
sudden z.rA extreme penalty that had befallen 
him. He all along known that the police 


66 


IN PRISON AND OUl. 


were **down^* upon begging; but it had not 
entered his mind that he could ever actually 
get into jail except for thieving. Among the 
street-lads of his acquaintance many a one had 
been in for some short term for picking pockets 
or stealing from the street-stalls ; but few of 
these had ever been sentenced to three months* 
imprisonment. And he had always kept his 
hands from picking and stealing, — the only 
item of his duty to man which his mother had 
impressed upon him. He would not have 
begged if he could have worked ; but no man 
of the hundreds of thousands about him had 
offered him work, or seen that he was taught to 
work. Yet here he was for three months in 
jail, a lad who had never known any will to 
guide him but his own untrained and vagrant 
nature, and his mother’s kindly and weak in- 
dulgence. 

The first glimmer of hope came to him when 
he was set to learn shoemaking. This was a 
trade by which he could earn a living, — not the 
trade he would have chosen (his ambition was 
to be a carpenter like his unknown father), but 
still honest, real work. He received his first 


LESSONS IN PRISON. 


67 


lesson in a handicraft with ardor, and sat with 
an old boot on his knee, picking it to pieces 
with unwearying industry. If he could only 
learn as much as to mend his mother’s shoes 
before his term was out ! The tears started to 
his dull, bloodshot eyes, and his lips quivered 
at the thought of it. He would do his best at 
any rate to learn this lesson. 

The jail was a large one, and the number of 
prisoners great. David had been asked if he 
was a Protestant or a Roman Catholic, — a 
question he did not understand, and could not 
answer. He was classed with the Protestants, 
and put under the care of the jail-chaplain, who 
saw him among the other prisoners, and taught 
him his duty towards God in a class, but who 
could not find time to give him any individual 
attention, as he was engaged in an important 
controversy. The chaplain told him, among 
the rest, that he had broken the laws of his 
country and of God, and that his punishment 
was the just reward of his sin. David’s ideas 
of right and wrong were exceedingly limited, 
and his conscience very uninformed; but he 
could not believe he had done wrong, and he 


68 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


did not. His mother was starving, and he had 
begged for help. If the laws of his country 
and of God forbade him to do this, they were 
in the wrong. 

He could not have put his thoughts into 
words, but they were none the less in his heart, 

' — dim, bewildering, and oppressive ; and he 
pondered over them night and day. Very few 
persons spoke to him, and he was never ready 
to speak in reply. Those who taught him 
thought him a blockhead, or fancied that he 
was at least shamming incapacity and vacancy 
of mind. As a matter of fact his mind was 
always absent, except at his cobbling lesson ; 
for he was incessantly brooding over the recol- 
lection of his free life, and of the poor desolate 
home he had been so suddenly torn from. 

David had no idea of writing to his mother, 
or hearing from her. No such thing as a letter 
reaching them, or being written in their home, 
had ever occurred within his memory. The 
policeman was a much more frequent visitor 
than the postman in their street. Yet he 
longed for her to know where he was. Day 
after day he wondered wl .at had happened to 


LESSONS IN PRISON. 69 

her and Bess, and knew they were wondering 
and fretting about him. The only comfort he 
had — the only miserable spark of hope — was 
jn thinking he should know how to mend their 
shoes when he went home. 

It was therefore with a sudden burst as of 
sunshine that he learned one .day that prisoners 
might write to their friends once in three 
months. The schoolmaster gave him the writ- 
ing materials, and he took unwearied pains over 
a letter to his mother. The sheet of note- 
paper contained the address of the jail, and 
under it David wrote, in his crooked, ill-formed 
characters, as follows : — 

“Dear Mother, — I was took up for beging, and 
cent to jal, and I’m lernin’ to mend shoos. Don’t yu fret 
about me. I luv yu and Bess. They’ll let me out in 3 
muiiths, and I’ll mend yure shoos. I’ve kep my hands 
from pickin’ and steelin’ as muther ses. God bless yu. 
From david fell yure luvin’ son.” 

He slept that night more soundly than he 
had ever done before within the prison-walls, 
and dreamed pleasant dreams of working for 
his mother, and buying her and little Bess all 
they needed with the money he had earned. 


70 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


CHAPTER VI. 

NOT god’s will? 

HEN Mrs. Fell and Bess bade Euclid 



V V and Victoria good-night, and went 
downstairs to their own room, they felt cheered 
and comforted by the neighborliness they had 
received. Bess was ready to declare Victoria 
the prettiest and cleverest girl in the world. 
As they opened their door, they saw a letter 
lying just within it, which had been slipped 
through the nick below it, and which was 
scarcely visible in the darkness. Such an extra- 
ordinary event — one which had never befallen 
them before — filled them with so much aston- 
ishment, that it was with trembling hands Bess 
stooped to pick it up. It was a real letter, with 
a stamp and post-mark upon it, though they 
could hardly believe their own eyes. There 


NOT god’s will? 


71 


was no light in their own room, not even a dim 
farthing candle to burn ; and there was no 
resource but to carry the strange letter to the 
gas-light or. the stairs, and read it there as 
quickly and quietly as possible, with the very 
probable chance of some of their neighbors 
coming by and watching them inquisitively. 

It must be news of David : there was no one 
else in the world to write to them. Bess could 
not read writing, and it was no easy task to 
Mrs. Fell. But as soon as she unfolded the 
sheet of paper, which was headed by the name 
of the jail where he was imprisoned printed 
plainly upon it, and which she read half aloud 
before the meaning reached her brain, she 
uttered a piercing shriek of anguish, which 
rang through the whole house, and brought 
every inmate of it running into the passages 
and upon the staircases. Mrs. Fell was lying 
in a deep swoon upon the floor, and Bess was 
kneeling beside her, calling to her, and trying to 
raise her up. Blackett was the first to reach 
her ; and the half -dr unken man gave her a rough 
push with his foot, uttering a brutal oath. 

“You leave her alone!” cried old Euclid, 


72 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


hurrying downstairs, and confronting Blackett 
with a courage that astonished himself when 
he came to think of it; ‘‘you leave Mrs. Fell 
be ! She’s been spendin’ the evenin’ with me 
and my daughter, and I’ll take care on her. 
You ain’t no man if you’d kick a poor sickly 
woman like her. You’re a coward if you touch 
her again, and I say so. Ain’t he ? ” he shouted 
in his hoarse voice, as he turned with a quiver- 
ing face and excited gestures to the cluster of 
neighbors gathered about them. 

“Ay, he is ! ” cried the crowd with so unani- 
mous a voice, that Blackett even was cowed by 
it, and, contenting himself with muttering some 
bad language, retreated to his own place. Two 
or three of the neighbors helped Euclid to 
carry the poor woman into her room. Even 
to them, used to destitution as they were, it 
seemed bare of every thing. There was no 
seat left, unless a few bricks, picked up in the 
street, could be called seats ; and they had to 
lay her down upon the mere sacking of the 
bedstead, from which the bed and clothing had 
all disappeared. Euclid gazed round him with 
a strange pity stirring at his heart, mingled 


NOT god’s will? 


73 


with a sense of supeiior comfo t in his own 
circumstances. He felt most like a rich man. 

‘‘This is bad, worse than any on us,” he 
said ; “ and she might ha* been my widow, ii 
I’d died first, instead of my wife. She mighi 
ha’ been the widow of any one on you. I vote 
as we make a little collection for her in the 
house ; and I’ll begin with a shillin’, and that’s 
more than I’ve earned to-day. Some on yoL 
can do it easier than me.” 

“She gets four shilling and eightpence 
parish pay, every Tuesday,” objected one oi 
the women who stood by. 

“ And pays arf-a-crown a week rent,” replied 
Euclid : “ it’s short-commons after that.” 

“She’s always a-hungered,” sobbed Bess, 
“nothin’ can satisfy mother.” 

“ She ought to go into the house, where she’d 
have medicine and every think,” said another 
voice : “ the orficer says so.” 

“Who says she ought to go into the house ? ” 
asked Euclid, lifting up his head, and looking 
round him with eyes almost bright with indig- 
nation. “ She, as is a decent, hard-workin* 
woman, and a honest man’s widow I She’s not 


74 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


the sort as goes into the house. We know who 
goes there, — bad women, as no decent man 
'ud look at, and drunken women, and swearin', 
cursin’ women. There couldn’t be worse folks 
in hell ; and I’d as lief say she ought to go to 
hell: the company ’ud be as good. Don’t no- 
body speak o’ goin’ to the house while I’m by.” 

Old Euclid had always been regarded by 
his neighbors as a quiet, timid old man, who 
hadn’t a word to cast at a dog. There was 
something so unusual both in his vehement 
words and his excited gestures, that, one by 
one, they slunk out of the miserable room in 
silence, leaving him and Bess to the task of 
bringing back the fainting woman to conscious- 
ness. She was still clutching the letter con- 
vulsively in her fingers ; but, as Bess opened 
them to chafe the palms of her cold hands, it 
fluttered down upon the^ floor. Euclid picked 
it up, and carried it to the light of the candle, 
which somebody had brought in, and left upon 
the chimney-piece. 

Who’s it from } ” asked Bess anxiously, 
“ Is it from Davy ? ” 

“Ah! ‘David Fell, your lovin’ son,”’ he 


NOT god's will? 


75 

read ; “ but it comes from jai. ! He’s in 
jail!” 

Euclid’s gray old head dropped, and his voice 
sank into a hoarse murmur. It was no longer 
a wonder to him that Mrs. Fell had fallen into 
a death-like swoon. The workhouse was terri- 
ble ; but the jail was a lower depth still. He 
stood silent for a few minutes thinking. David 
had always been a sort of favorite with him : he 
liked his bright, boyish face, and his merry 
whistle as he stepped briskly about. And the 
lad had often carried his basket for him, and 
shouted ** Creases ! ” with his clear young voice, 
when his own throat was dry and husky with 
crying them all day about the streets. But now 
David Fell was a jail-bird I 

Presently there came to his ear the feeble 
murmur of his name from David’s mother ; and 
he hastened to her side, looking down on her 
ashy face with a strange gentleness in his 
sunken eyes. 

“ Please read it up loud,” she said in a labo- 
rious whisper, as if she had scarcely strength to 
form the words with her trembling lips. Euclid 
read the few lines in a measured voice, giv* 


76 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


ing every word its fullest length ; and then 
folded it up again, and laid it down near the 
mother’s hand. 

“It’s only for beggin’ 1 ” he cried. “Three 
months for beggin’ for tis mother! God help 
us all ! There’s something wrong somewhere. 
Them justices must have hearts like mine, I 
s’ pose ; yet they sent Davy to jail for three 
months for beggin’ for his mother! If they’d 
only take the time for to see what they’d done ! 
But there ! they don’t take the time, or they’d 
never punish a lad like David, the son of a de- 
cent, hard-workin’ woman, as was left a widow 
with two children to keep. God help us all ! ” 

“ It’s only for beggin’ ! ” murmured Mrs. Fell, 
with tears streaming down her cheeks, — “ onl} 
for beggin’ ! ” 

“Don’t you take on too much,” urged Euclid 
“ He’ll come home all right, and I’ll look after 
the lad for you.” 

But it was hard for Mrs. Fell to comfort her- 
self about David. It was no uncommon event 
for boys in their street to get into jail ; but it 
was almost always for stealing, and she knew 
no one would believe that David had been sent 


NOT god’s will? 


71 


there for begging only. How Blackett would 
glory and triumph in it ! His elder sons were 
known to be thieves, and he was constantly 
pushing and urging Roger into the same 
course, in the hope of getting him off his hands. 
Yet it had never once crossed her mind that 
lier own boy Davy could ever be in prison. 
His father had been an honest, industrious 
artisan, priding himself on never touching his 
neighbor’s goods by so much as a finger ; and 
she had not thought of David failing, under any 
stress of temptation, to follow in his steps. 
David was no thief ; but still he was in jail ! 
She kept murmuring to herself, It’s only for 
beggin’ ! ” But was the bitterness lessened to 
her that her only son had met with such a pen- 
alty for so slight a fault ? He would come out 
into the world branded as if he had been a thief, 
with the shame of a jail clinging to him through 
the rest of his life. 

Euclid and Victoria were very good to her in 
her fresh trouble, and helped her as far as their 
means allowed ; the little store of money for 
Victoria’s burial suffering thereby. Many of 
the neighbors, too, thought of her, and brought 


78 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


her from time to time a morsel of their own not 
over-abundant food. Even Blackett offered her 
help, which she turned away from with a sick 
heart. She was not quite so starved and friend- 
less as she had been before her desperate cir- 
cumstances were discovered ; but she felt more 
heart-broken, and there was none to comfort 
her. Victoria repeated her hymns and verses 
to her ; but they seemed words without meaning 
in her great sorrow. She had set before her one 
aim, — to see her children start in life honest 
and blameless, as their father had been before 
them. Night and day she had toiled and de- 
nied herself to this end. She had given herself 
no rest, but had struggled on through grievous 
pain, and in great darkness of spirit ; and she 
had failed. The hard battle had been fought, 
and she was conquered. 

‘‘Davy 'ud have made a good man,'' she 
moaned to herself through the long, sleepless 
nights, as she thought of him in jail. “He’d 
have growed up like his father, if I could ha' 
kep' up another two-three years. It's come too 
soon on me. But now he’s got a sully and a 
stain on him as’il never wash off, live as long 


NOT god’s .VILL? 


79 


as he may. He’s been in jail, folks’ll say 
And whatever’ll become o’ Bess if Davy goes 
wrong ? He’d have kep’ her up if he’d been a 
good man. O Lord ! he’d have made a good 
man, only for this. And now he’s in jail ! ” 

Bess was all that was left to her, and she 
could scarcely bear to let her go out of her 
sight. Blackett, who swore and raged at every 
one else, was beginning to speak kindly to Bess, 
and this filled the heart of the poor dying 
mother with unutterable terror. She had often 
been proud of her child’s dark eyes and pretty 
hair, and thought of her own face when David 
Fell was "courting her. Oh, if Davy was 'out 
at home again, always with Bess, unconsciously 
shielding her from untold dangers ! Suppose 
even that she died before Davy’s time was up ! 
If she should never, never see her boy’s face 
again I And to leave Bess alone, quite alone ! 

It would have been a hard and bitter sorrow 
to leave her children, if she had a good hope of 
their doing well ; but, oh ! how infinitely harder 
and more bitter it was to die while David was 
in jail, and when Blackett was speaking kindly 
to little Bess I 


8c 


IN PRISON ANr) Ot/T. 


Once she tried .o say, ** It’s God’s will, and 
he knows best ; ” but something seemed to stop 
her. She could not utter the words, even ta 
her 0 wn heart 


EESS BEGINS BUSINESS. 


Si 


CHAPTER VII 

BESS BEGINS BUSINESS. 

B ess had not forgotten that the redemp- 
tion of her mother's wedding-ring rested 
upon her, and that she had pledged herself to 
get it out of pawn. She tried in various ways 
to get some work to do ; but she had neither 
strength nor skill to make her work valuable. 
At last she took counsel with Victoria, who 
proposed to her to go out selling water-cresses 
like her father ; and he offered to take her with 
him to the market where he bought his daily 
supply, and start her on a beat of her own, 
apart from him, as he could not afford to divide 
i,is customers and his profits. A few pence, a 
few halfpence even, would set her up in this 
line of business ; and, with luck, she might earn 
suffi^'ient to keep herself, and redeem the ring. 


S2 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

It may be pleasant to rise at four o’clock in 
June, and, quitting the thick and nauseous 
atmosphere of the overcrowded and unventi- 
lated dwelling-place, to escape into the sweet 
dewy freshness of the early morning, which, 
even in the streets, is scented with the breath 
of country hay-fields and blossoming gardens : 
but four o’clock on a winter’s morning, when 
Bess hurriedly dressed herself, without a light, 
in the thin and tattered clothes, which were all 
she had, and thrust her naked feet into her 
mother’s old boots ; and, kissing her mother, 
who must lie still and lonely till she came back, 
stepped out into the half-slush, half-frost of the 
pavement, and the biting air, — this was a sharp 
test of her endurance. But Euclid was waiting 
for her with his basket, and she trudged along 
at his side through the slush and the frost, 
carrying an old battered tea-tray a neighbor 
had lent her the night before. It was nearly 
three miles to the market. Early as the hour 
was, and dark as midnight still, life had begun 
again a' the East End; and many a shivering 
fellow-being, shuffling along the slippery pave- 
ment, and maintaining a sombre silence, passed 


BESS BEGINS BUSINESS. 


33 


them like ghosts. Bess had never been out at 
this hour before, and she kept close to Euclid’s 
side. 

The oli man, too, was silent : he felt put out 
oy the presence of a companion. For twenty- 
five years, ever since he had recovered partially 
from the accident that disabled him as a labor- 
er, he had taken this walk alone through sum- 
mer and winter ; and it was bewildering to him 
to hear the light footsteps of Bess pattering 
Deside him. He had so long lived altogether 
without intercourse with his neighbors, that he 
was surprised, and not altogether pleased, to 
find himself taking an interest in Mrs. Fell 
and David and Bess. Might not such an in- 
terest come between him and the sole aim of 
his life ? For, if he yielded too much to the 
stirrings of compassion and pity in his heart, 
some danger might arise to his slowly accumu- 
lated hoard, now lying safely under Victoria’s 
head. 

Yet Euclid felt that he could not stand by 
and see his neighbor die of starvation under 
his very eyes. No, no: that could never be. 
He glanced at Bess, as they passed beneath a 


84 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


lamp, and caught a half-smile of trustfulness in 
him shining in her eyes, like the look of his 
little children, dead long ago, who had been 
used to run to meet him when they heard his 
foot on the stairs. They were all gone to 
heaven now, where his wife was. He had no 
idea of heaven beyond a vague fancy dwelling 
in his brain, that there would be somewhere — 
out of the world or in the world, he did not 
know — a little cottage on a hillside, such as the 
early home he dimly remembered, where they 
would all live together again, and where there 
would be no winter, and no more hunger or 
sorrow ; no parish pay, and no workhouse. His 
lost wife would be young again, and all his 
children little ones ; and there would be a gar- 
den for him to work in, lying round the cottage. 
That was Euclid’s heaven. 

He was still dreaming of it when they 
reached the market, and joined a crowd of 
old folks and young children waiting for the 
gates to be opened. It was not yet five o’clock, 
and the yellow glare of a few gas-lamps shed 
a dim light upon the scene. The crowd was 
very quiet and subdued. All who were there 


BESS BEGINS BUSINESS. 


85 


were feeble folk, and did not care to waste their 
strength in noise and pushing. As each old 
person or little child came, they took their 
place as near to the gate as they could get ; and 
most of them sank into silent waiting. The 
poorest of the decent poor were there, — those 
who were willing to struggle to the bitter end 
to earn an honest living, and keep out of the 
workhouse. Euclid did as the rest did, and, 
with Bess beside him, stood in patient mute- 
ness till he could make his purchases for the 
day. 

As soon as the gates were opened, there was 
a quiet crush through them. Euclid took more 
care in buying a stock of cresses for Bess than 
for himself; though he was fastidious in his 
choice, passing from hamper to hamper, and 
peering closely at the green leaves to detect 
any specks upon them. As soon as his pur- 
chases were made, he hurried Bess away to the 
steps of a church close by, where he showed 
her how to make up her bunches, and slung the 
old tray round her neck by a bit of cord he 
drew out of his pocket. 

“Now we must be as sharp as needles and 


86 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


pins,’* he said. Fve heard somewhere of a 
early bird as picked up a early worm. Folks’ll 
be gettin’ their breakfasses soon, and we must 
be in time to catch ’em at it. Don’t you 
waste your time along the bettermost streets, 
Bess ; but stick to the courts and the mewses 
and the streets where workin’ men live. Rich 
folks ain’t thinkin’ o’ gettin’ out o’ bed yet ; and 
they don’t eat creases for breakfast, but ham 
and eggs, and hot things. Mewses are good 
places in general. Walk pretty slow, two mile 
an hour ; and keep your eye on the doors and 
windows for fear somebody’s beckonin’ at you. 
There now ! I’ll stand at the end o’ this here 
street, and hearken how you can cry, ‘ Creases ! 
Fresh water-creases 1 ’ till you’re out o’ m> 
sight.” 

Euclid stood watching Bess, with her trayful 
of cresses, as she paced slowly along the street, 
her clear, pleasant voice singing, rather than 
crying, the familiar words. Then he turned 
away with a heavy sigh. His own voice 
sounded husky and hollow in his ears as he 
shambled along his customary beat, drawling 
mournfully, *'Cre-she! cre-shel” He felt an 


BESS BEGINS BUSINESS. 


87 


older man than usual, as though some addition- 
al burden of years had suddenly fallen upon his 
bent shoulders and bowed-down head. Yet he 
was only in his sixtieth year, and there was 
much work and much power of endurance left 
in him still. He had never starved quite as 
much as he could; and his old clothing had 
never been as utterly tattered as they might be. 
But he saw depths of poverty below even him ; 
and for once his heart felt heavy enough to sink 
him and Victoria into those lowest deeps. 

‘‘The parish!” he muttered to himself half 
aloud, as he rested his dry throat for a minute 
or two, “ the parish I And be parted from her ! 
Not bury Victoria in her own coffin, like the 
rest of ’em I The parish I God help these old 
legs o’ mine ! ” 

As if some new strength had been breathed 
into him, Euclid started on again, crying his 
street-cry with more energy than before. The 
thought of the parish had run like a stimulant 
through his whole frame. He had more luck 
than usual, and sold so many bunches of cresses 
that he felt justified in baying one of the best 
of Yarmouth bloaters, which he chose with 


88 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


close cautiousness, as if he was difficult to 
please, at a shop he passed on his way home. 
It was for a relish for Victoria’s tea, more thau 
for himself. He had made as much as two 
shillinejs by his day’s toil and his ten miles' 
tramp through the slushy streets ; and, after he 
had taken enough for the day’s food and rent, 
there was as much as ninepence to put by. 

** Let us look over our little store,” he said, 
when their leisurely tea was ended. 

He was counting up the silver and copper 
coins on the empty soap-box, turned on end, 
which served as a table when it was not wanted 
as a seat, when a low knock was heard at the 
door. There was neither lock nor latch upon 
it, the sole fastening being a stick passed 
through a staple and holdfast within. But there 
wa§ no other room in the roof, and the steep 
ladder-like staircase was seldom trodden by any 
one but themselves. Euclid made haste to 
gather the money into the handkerchief that 
usually held it, before Victoria opened the door. 
But Bess, who was the untimely visitor, had 
already seen the heap of coins through a chink 
in the old door, and heard their jingle as E iciiJ 


BESS BEGINS BUSI.CESS. 


89 


swept them out of sight. She stood thunder- 
struck on the door-sill, gazing in with largo, 
wide-open eyes 

What is it, Bess ? ” asked Victoria. 

“ Oh ! mother’s sent me up to say as I’ve 
had good luck,” she stammered, “and it’s 
thanks to you, Mr. Euclid ; and, oh ! please may 
I go again to-morrow morning ? ” 

“ Ay, child,” answered Euclid shortly. 

Bess went downstairs with a far slower step 
than she had gone up. Never in her life had 
she seen so much money at one time as when 
she had put her oye to the chink in the door, 
and peeped in on her friends. It seemed to hei 
as if the whole end of the soap-box had been 
covered with it. Mr. Euclid, in spite of his old 
clothing and his poor attic, was then a rich 
man ! If such riches could be made by selling 
water-cresses, then, she too was on the high-road 
to be rich. Already to-day she had earned 
moi 2 money than she had ever owned before ; 
and her mother had smiled for the first time 
since David went out begging when she poured 
the halfpence into her lap. Like Euclid, she 
had trudged through the mud of the partially 


90 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


frozen streets for nine or ten miles, besides hei 
cvalk to the market ; and her limbs were weary, 
and her throat somewhat tired. But her heart 
was very light. Then the wonderful sight of 
heaps of money on Euclid’s table had dazzled 
her. Why had they never thought of this trade 
before ? A thousand pities it was ; for, if they 
had begun early enough, she and David might 
now have heaps of money too, like Euclid and 
Victoria. 

Bess was up again before four o^ clock in the i 
morning, and was waiting for Euclid when he t 
came downstairs. She was eager to be away ' 
making her fortune. By and by Euclid grew j 
used to her company, and liked to hear her talk ^ 
as she tripped along by his side. Morning 
after morning, through darkness and frost, snow . 
and fog, the gray-headed man and the young 
girl started off on their toilsome tramp, — the 
one with the uncomplaining fortitude of old age, 
the other with the hopeful courage of youth. 

** It’ll not be such a lonesome shop when I’m 
gone now, father,” said Victoria one day. 

Why so, Victoria, my dear he asked. 

There’s Bess,” she answered, smiling, buf 


BESS BEGINS BUSINESS. 


91 


somewhat sadly. You’ll take to her, daddy. 
You two ’ud be two lonesome ones if you didn’t 
take to one another. Mrs. Fell’s very near her 
end ; and I am, p’rhaps.” 

** Do you feel worse, Victoria ? ” he inquired 
anxiously. 

‘‘Not worse,” she said ; “but it’s so long, the 
winter is ; and there’s so much dark, and I lie 
here doin’ nothin’. If it wasn’t for mother’s 
verses and hymns, I don’t know what I’d do. 
I’ve been sayin’ one of ’em all day.” 

“ Which is it, my dear } ” he asked. 

Victoria’s voice fell into a low and solemn 
tone as she said these words : — 

“ There is a house, not made with hands, 

Eternal and on high ; 

And here my spirit waiting stands 
Till God shall bid it fly.” 

“ Ay ! she were always a-sayin’ them lines,” 
Euclid murmured softly, “ afore you was born, 
my dear.” 

“There’s enough money to pay for my 
buryin’ now, isn’t there, father?” asked Vic- 
toria. 


92 


IN PRISON Ax<ID OUT. 


‘*To be sure there is, my dear; lots enough,” 
he answered, “and a bit o’ black for Bess, if 
that’ll be any comfort to you.” 

“She’s strong, and can help you to get a 
livin’,” observed Victoria, almost joyously ; 
“ and there’ll be somebody to see as you have 
a coffin of your own too, daddy. I’m glad to 
think you’ll take to Bess when I’m gone.” 

“ My work’ll be done then,” said Euclid. “ I 
promised your mother what I’d do, and I’ve 
a’most done it. Then I’m ready to go, It's a 
queer shop, this world is I ” 


THE PRISON-CROP ON A YOUNG HEAD. 93 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE PRISON-CROP ON A YOUNG HEAD. 

I N three calendar months after Davia Fell 
was committed to jail for begging, he was 
released, and sent out again to the old life. 
He had been regularly supplied with food, kept 
from the cold of the wintry days and nights, 
and properly exercised with a careful regard to 
his health. He had never had three months of 
so much physical comfort before ; and he had 
grown a good deal both in size and strength. 
Moreover he had been diligently taught in 
school, and could read and write very much 
better, and with more ease, than when he had 
written his short letter to his mother. He had 
learned cobbling, and could mend a pair of 
boots quite creditably. The governor of the 
jail enumerated these advantages to him as he 
gave him a few words of parting counsel. 


94 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


‘^Now, my latl/’ he continued, ‘'don’t let me 
see you here again, or hear of you being in 
trouble elsewhere. This is the second time 
you’ve been in jail ” — 

“ Please, sir,” interrupted David, with energy, 
“I never was in jail before. It was another 
boy, not me. I’ve done nothin’ worse than 
beggin’.” 

“ Don’t go away with a lie on your tongue,” 
said the governor sternly. “ It’s a sad thing to 
break the laws of your country ; but it’s worse 
to break God’s laws. ‘Thou shalt not steal! 
thou shalt not lie I ’ are his laws. ‘ Thou shalt 
not beg,’ is your country’s law. Keep them in 
mind, and you’ll not get into trouble again.” 

David heard the prison-gate close behind him, 
leaving him free again in the open streets, with 
an odd feeling of strangeness and timidity 
mingled with his delight. The other prisoners 
released at the same time quickly vanished out 
of sight, as if they did not care to be seen under 
the jail-walls. But David lingered, half bewil- 
dered and half fascinated, gazing up at the 
strong, grim edifice, with its massive doors and 
small, closely barred windows. It had been his 


THE PRISON-CROP ON A YOUNG HEAD. 95 

home for three months. He was no longer a 
stranger to it or its ways If he should ever 
come there again, he could fall at once into its 
customs and rules, and would need very little, 
if any, irstruction from its warders. Just now 
it seemed more familiar and less formidable to 
him than the narrow, dirty, squalid street where 
his former neighbors lived, and his mother, and 
little Bess. 

He had some miles to go, and it was almost 
dusk \^hen he reached his own neigborhood. 
But, though he was stronger and better fitted 
for labor than when he left it three months ago, 
he did not turn boldly into the street, whistling 
some gay tune as he marched along, and calling 
aloud to this neighbor and that, ready for all 
sorts of boyish pranks, and equally ready to 
render little acts of help and kindness to any 
one who needed them. He waited till night 
fell, and then went slinking down close to the 
walls, and keeping as much in the shadow as 
possible, Blackett’s door was open, and he 
dare not face Blackett. He had always held up 
his head high above Blackett’s sons, except 
Roger; and he knew bcth father and sons hated 


96 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


him for it. Did the neighbors know that he 
had been in prison? If they did not, his 
closely cropped head, with the dark hair grow- 
ing like short fur all over it, would betray him 
at once. 

He stood in a dark corner over against the 
house, watching its inmates pass to and fro. 
There was old Euclid going in with his empty 
basket : it was quite empty ; so he must have 
had a good day. And presently he saw the 
glimmer of a, candle in the garret-window. 
What would Victoria say when she saw him 
and his prison-crop for the first time ? He 
was almost as much afraid of her and Euclid 
as he was of Blackett. Could he make them 
believe that he had only been in jail for beg- 
ging? Surely they would not be too hard on 
him for that! Yet he felt the old glow of 
shame again at the thought of going out to 
beg. 

His mother would believe it, and know it to 
be true. He was longing for the sight of her; 
but he dare not go past Blackett’s open door. 
The tears smarted under his eyelias as he 
thought of how soon now he was going to see 


THE PRISON-CROP ON A YOUNG HEAD. 97 

her Then a dark dread crossed, his mind 
lie hac been away for three months ; and sup- 
pose his mother should be dead ! Oh ! if that 
could be! Dead and buried, and he never to 
see her again ! , 

At length Blackett came out, and staggered 
up the street towards the enticing spirit-vaults 
at the corner. Now was the moment He 
crept cautiously to the entrance, and then 
darted through the lighted passage almost at 
a bound. In an instant his hand was on the 
latch ; and, flinging open his mother’s door, he 
rushed in, panting, and closed it after him, as 
if fearful of being pursued. He could hardly 
see for a moment, though there was a candle 
in the room. But, when he looked round, there 
was his mother lying on the bare sacking of 
her miserable bed, her face pale as death, and 
her sunken eyes, with a famished, ravenous 
expression in them, fastened eagerly on him. 
They told a tale of terrible suffering. It 
seemed to David as if he had almost for- 
fotten his mother’s face while he had been in 
jail, and that now he saw it , afresh, with all 
the story of her pain and anguish printed 


98 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


upon it. He stood motionless, staring at her ; 
and she lifted herself up on the bed, and held 
out her arms to him. 

“ O Davy, my boy ! Davy ! she cried, 
** come to me ! come quickly ! ” 

With a deep groan, such as is rarely wrung 
from the lips of a man, the boy flung himself 
into his mother^s arms ; and the mother bore 
the shock of agony it caused her without a cry. 

This was her son, her first-bom. He was 
the baby who had first lain in her bosom, now 
so tortured with ceaseless pain, and who had 
filled her whole heart with love and joy. She 
could recollect how his father had looked down 
upon them both with mingled pride and sh}^ 
ness. She almost forgot her pain in the 
rapture of fondling him once again. Her 
shrivelled, wasted hand, whose fingers were 
drawn up with long years of toil, stroked his 
poor head, with its prison-crop of hair, where 
the baby's flaxen curls had grown ; and her lips 
were pressed again and again to his face. She 
could not let him go. 

was doin’ nothin’ but beggin’ for jou, 
mother,” he sobbed out at last 


THE PRISON-CROP ON A YOUNG HEAP 99 

“ I know, Davy ; I know,*’ she said, sinking 
back exhausted, but still holding fas*- his hand, 
and devouring him with her eyes. ** It couldn’t 
be no sin, God in heaven knows. You’ll make 
a good man yet, in spite of all, like your father, 
Davy. You’re as like him as like can be ! ” 

She lay looking at him with a smile on her 
face. So much care had been taken of him in 
the jail, that he looked more like a man, or at 
least gave more promise of growing into a 
strong, capable man like his father, than he had 
ever done whilst he starved on scanty fare at 
home. His face, too, had lost its boyish care- 
lessness, and wore an air of thought, almost of 
gloom, such as sat on most men’s faces. 

Maybe I ought to ha’ gone into the house,” 
she said, as her eyes caught sight of David’s 
short, dark hair. “ It’s bad for folks to say 
you ever went a-beggin’, and was took up 
for it. But I never knew nobody go into the 
house as I should like to be with, or have 
Bess be with. Most of the folks as have gone 
out of our street ’ud shame the bad place itself ; 
and it ’ud be worse than dyin’ to live among 
em all day, and all night too. I always said, 


100 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


and I promised father when he was dyii’i*, I 
swore a oath to him, as long as I comd stand 
at a tub, I’d never mix myself up with such a 
lot, or let his boy and girl go among ’em. But 
maybe I ought to ha’ given in, instead of lettin’ 
you go a-beggin’,” she added, with a profound 
sigh. 

No, no, mother : don’t you fret about me,” 
answered David. *‘Why! I’ve learnt a trade 
in — there,” he said, avoiding the name *'jail.” 
“ And I know how to work now, and I’ll keep 
you and Bess. Sometimes I used to think, 
s’pose they’d only taught me outside, without 
goin’ inside that place ! I’d have learnt it with 
more heart, and never got the bad name as 
folks will give me now. I can mend boots and 
shoes prime now ; and I can read and write 
almost like d scholar But I shall never get 
over being in there ! ” 

Oh, you will, you will, my lad I ” cried his 
mother faintly and sadly. 

‘'No, I can’t never forget it,” he said, with 
a look of shame and sorrow on his face. 
“Father’s name was always good, and mine 
never can be. Mother, if they’d only tried to 


THE PRISON-CROP ON A YOUNG HEAD. lOI 


find out iJ I spoke- true ! But they didn’t take 
no time or trouble. I didn’t know where I was 
afore the magistrate said, ‘ Three months ! ’ 
And they bundled me away as if I weren’t 
worth taking trouble about. I’m a jail-bird 
now.” 

** No, no ! ” sobbed his mother. 

“That’s what the neighbors’ll call me,” he 
went on. “And Blackett’ll crow over me. 
They’ll never believe I was only beggin’. I 
feel as if I couldn’t hold my head up to face 
them or Bess. Where’s Bess, mother ? ” 

But, as he spoke, Bess came in, and, with a 
cry of delight, ran to him, and flung her arms 
round his neck. He could not rid himself of 
those clinging arms ; and he burst into a pas- 
sion of weeping as Bess kissed him again and 
again. 

“They were wicked, cruel people as sent 
you to jail, Davy,” she repeated over and 
c ver again, — “ cruel and wicked ! cruel and 
wicked ! ” 

It was some minutes before they could speak 
to one another in any other words, or before 
Bess remembered on what errand she had been 
absent when David came home. 


102 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


*‘They caiu’t let us have the ring this even- 
ing, mother,” she said after a while. ‘*Mr. 
Quirk’s away till this time to-morrow ; and 
Mrs. Quirk says as she daren’t part with any 
o’ the rings without him.” 

“ What ring ” asked David. 

** Mother’s ring,” answered Bess. 

** We were forced to part with it, Davy,” said 
his mother in a pleading tone, as if to justify 
herself to him. ‘‘I’d clemmed myself till I 
could bear it no longer, and every think else 
was gone. It was the last time I set foot 
out o’ doors. I carried it myself to Mr. 
Quirk’s, and swore as I’d redeem it. And 
Bess there has earned money to redeem it ; 
and we thought we’d get it back to-night. But 
you’re come back instead, my lad; and I can 
bear to go without the ring.” 

His mother’s wedding-ring had been all his 
life to him a sacred thing, — the only sacred 
thing he knew of. It was blended with all his 
earliest childish thoughts of his dead father, 
whom he had never known, but of whom his 
mother talked so often of an evening when 
work was done, and she wore the ring, and 


THE PRISON-CROP ON A YOUNG HEAD. IO3 

when the glimmer of it in the dim firelight 
made it visible, though almost all else was in 
darkness. All the inherent superstition and 
reverence for sacred symbols common to our 
nature centred for David in his mother’s wed 
ding-ring. He knew what straits of gnawing 
hunger Bess and his mother must have under- 
gone before they would part with it; and his 
bitterness and heaviness of heart — for he had 
left jail in bitterness and heaviness of heart — 
were increased tenfold by this loss of her 
ring 

“We’ll have it to-morrow,” he said in a 
stern and passionate voice. 

Yet they were on the whole happy that even- 
ing: it was so much to be together again. 
Bess had plenty to tell of her daily tramps 
through the streets, and David talked of his 
plans for the future; whilst their mother lis- 
tened to them, thankful beyond all words to 
have her boy in her sight once more. Even 
during the night, when she heard him turning 
uneasily to and fro on the scanty heap of straw 
they had managed to get for him to lie on, — 
so hard to him after his comfortable hammock 


104 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


and warm rug in the jail, — her heart felt lighter 
than it had done for many months. Her pov- 
erty continued, her sore pain was not less ago- 
nizing; but David was at home again, and life 
was once more dear to her. 


BROKEN-HEARTED. 


lOS 


CHAPTER IX. 

BROKEN-HEARTED. 

B ess was up as usual in the mo'rning; and 
David would have gone with her, but for 
Euclid. He shrank from meeting any of the 
neighbors; and, if it had been possible, he would 
have remained indoors till his hair had grown 
long again. All the day he stayed in the dark, 
unwholesome room, talking at times with his 
mother, but generally sitting silent, with his 
head resting on his hands. The hours seemed 
endless. Hunger and cold he had borne with 
courage, and he could do so still ; but shame he 
could not bear. Pride in a good name was the 
only moral lesson he had been taught ; and his 
good name was gone. His mother had sym- 
pathy enough to guess what troubled him ; but 
she did not know how to comfort him. There 


I06 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

was a vague, indistinct feeling in their minds 
that he had not forfeited his good name : he had 
been robbed of it. 

At last evening came, and Bess went out 
again to redeem the precious pledge. Both 
David and his mother forgot their troubles for 
a brief space of time as they thought of seeing 
it shine once more on her hand, so wasted 
and shrivelled now, and so different from the 
firm young hand that had first worn it. It had 
been a brand-new ring when David Fell bought 
it, — no other would satisfy the proud young 
artisan, — a thick, heavy ring of gold, such as 
the finest lady in the land might wear. 

It’s here, mother ! ” cried Bess, running in 
almost breathless, with the small, precious 
packet in her hand. David lighted the candle, 
and held it beside his mother, as her trembling 
fingers unfolded the paper in which it was 
wrapped. But what was this? A thin, bat- 
tered ring, worn almost to a thread. No more 
like the one they all knew so well, than this 
bare and desolate room was like the pleasant 
house David Fell had provided for his young 
wife. Mrs. Fell uttered a bitter cry of dis- 
appointment and dread. 


BROKEN-HEARTED. 


ic; 

Davy!*' she cried, ‘‘it isn’t mine! it isn't 
mine ! ” 

In two minutes, from that fatal cry of despair, 
David, panting, bareheaded, nearly mad with 
passion, stood on the pavement in front of the 
pawn-shop. There was no need to enter it ; for 
Mr. Quirk was pacing to and fro in front of his 
premises, inviting the passer-by to inspect his 
goods. He was a short, undersized, knavish- 
looking man. David confronted him with a 
white face and dilating nostrils, holding out the 
ring to him. 

“It isn’t mother’s!” he gasped. “You’ve 
give Bess somebody else’s ring. This ain’t 
mother’s ring.” 

“That’s Mary Fell’s ring,” drawled Mr. 
Quirk sneeringly, and as coolly as if he had 
prepared himself for the charge, “*s she 
pledged here to me two months ago. That’s 
her ring,” 

“ Give me my mother’s own ring ! ” shouted 
David, every nerve and muscle tinglinj with all 
/he force and energy he had in him. ‘ Give me 
her ring, you swindling thief ! ” 

“It’s Mary Fell’s ring,” repeated tne pawn 


I08 IN F^RiSON AND Oiyx. 

broker stubbornly; ‘‘and Mary Feirs well 
known as a thief and a drunkard, and something 
worse/’ 

Scarcely had the words against his mother’s 
good name been pronounced, before David had 
flung himself in his rage, and the unusual vigor 
he had brought from jail, upon the puny man, 
who was unprepared for the attack. The boy 
and the man were not ill matched, and blow 
after blow was given. The battered old ring 
fell to the pavement, and was trodden under 
their feet. A circle of spectators gathered as if 
by magic about them in an instant, none ol 
whom cared to interrupt the sport such a con- 
test afforded. There were cries and cheers of 
encouragement on all hands, until the comba- 
tants fell, David uppermost. 

“What’s all this about.?” inquired a police- 
man, elbowing his way through the crowd, and 
calmly looking on for a minute, whilst David still 
struck hard at his enemy, who was struggling up 
to his feet. The policeman seized the lad by the 
collar, and he tried to shake off his hold as he 
faced the pawnbroker blind and deaf with rage 

“ Give me my mcther’s ring ! ” he shouted. 


BROKEN-HEARTED. lOQ 

“ I give him in charge,” said Mr. Quirk, wel- 
coming the policeman’s interference ; whilst 
David felt an awful thrill of despair run through 
him as he saw whose hand was grasping him. 
** I was a-doin’ nothing, and he up and at me 
like a tiger,” added the pawnbroker. 

Ay, he did : I saw him,” cried a woman 
standing at the pawn-shop door. “ He’s a young 
jail-bird : everybody can see that.” 

It was only too plainly to be seen. David 
was now standing perfectly still in the police- 
man’s grip, pale and frightened, with a hang- 
dog air, which told powerfully against him. 
One of the passers-by, an intelligent, well- 
dressed mechanic, pressed forward a little, ask- 
ing, “ Why did you meddle with the man ? 
What’s this about a ring } ” But the policeman 
checked David’s attempts to reply. 

“ That’s no business of mine,” he said sharp- 
ly. “ You give this lad in charge ? ” 

He addressed himself to Mr. Quirk, who re- 
plied plaintively, — 

“ I’m a householder and a rate-payer,” 
said, “and I give him in charge.” 

“Then you’ll make your defence before the 


no N PRISON AND OUT. 

court/' said the policeman to David. ‘‘Come 
along with you ! " 

David glanced round the cluster of faces 
hemming him in. Some of them he knew. 
Blackett was there, grinning triumphantly, and 
Roger was peeping behind him, half afraid of 
being caught by his father. Euclid had stopped 
for a moment, with his basket on his ann, and 
was looking on with an amazed and puzzled 
face. David dared not call upon any of them 
by name; but he cried out, in a lamentable 
voice, which touched and startled many of the 
careless on-lookers, — 

‘‘ Will somebody tell my mother what's befell 
me.?" 

He saw Roger make him a sign that he had 
heard and would fulfil his request, before he 
was marched off to the police-station^ to pass a 
night there, — no longer a strange and unpre- 
cedented occurrence to David. 

Bess had set the door of their room a little 
ajar, and was waiting anxiously for David's 
return. Her mother had not ceased to sob 
over her lost ring from the moment when she 
had ca.ght sight of the worn-out, battered 


BROKEN-HEARTED. 


Ill 


thing which had been exchanged for her cwn. 
Her grief was the n.ore keen, as she had little 
hope of David recovering the right one. She 
had heard of other women having their wed- 
ding-rings changed, or sweated,” and never 
being able to right themselves ; and she could 
not bear to think of some other woman, hap- 
pier than herself, wearing it as her wedding- 
ring, and prizing it as she had done. A thou- 
sand dim memories and inarticulate thoughts 
centred in the lost ring, — none the less real, 
perhaps, because the poor widow was only an 
ignorant woman, and could not express her 
feelings in language. She lay moaning in utter 
hopelessness and helplessness, knowing too well 
it was lost forever. Before even they could 
expect David back, Roger ran in, breathless 
and stammering. The candle was still burning, 
and they could see his agitated face and his ex- 
cited gestures plainly. 

“ He’s bein’ took to jail again ! ” he ex- 
claimed in broken sentences. “I see him all 
along. He up and at old Quirk as brave as a 
bull-dog. He had him down on the ground in 
no time. He’d said as you was a thief and a 


II2 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


drunkard, and worse ; and David couldn^t stand 
it. I’d ha’ had a cut at him too ; but he had 
him down on his back in a moment’s time, and 
he fought for you like a good un j ’ 

But where is he ? ” gasped the mother, as her 
eyes, glistening with terror, turned towards the 
door, where Bess was standing, as though waiting 
to let David in, and close it safely after him. 

*^He’s took to jail, you know,” answered 
Roger, with an oath such as he had learned 
when he could first speak. ‘‘There was a 
bobby up, afore I could give him warnin’, 
pushin’ through everybody ; and old Quirk gave 
him in charge, and they walked him off to the 
station, to be shut up all night till to-morrow 
mornin’. And he shouted, ‘ Somebody tell my 
mother what’s befell me!’ And he looked 
straight at me, and I came off at wunst. Per- 
haps they’ll let him go free in the mornin’ 1 ” 

But even Roger’s unaccustomed eyes could 
see the deathlike pallor and change that came 
over the face of David’s mother, as she heard 
what he had to say. She uttered no word or 
cry, but sank down again on her miserable 
death-bed, and turned her despairing face to 


BROKEN-HEARTED. 


II3 

the wall. Bess sent away Roger, and, carefully 
putting out the candle, crept on to the sacking 
beside her, and, laying her arm gently across her, 
spoke hopefully of David being released, and 
Quirk punished, as soon as the truth was known. 
But Mrs. Fell was at last broken-hearted, and 
answered not a word even to little Bess, who 
fell asleep at last, crying softly to herself. 

Who can tell how long the hours of that 
night were ? Darkness without, and within the 
utter blackness of despair! The craving hun- 
ger of disease, and tne souFs hunger after the 
welfare of her children ! The chilly dew of 
death, and the icy death-blow dealt to every^ 
lingering hope for them 1 When Bess awoke 
and bestirred herself early in the morning, her 
mother still lay speechless, and she dared not 
leave her. Euclid started on his day’s work 
alone. There was no one she could ask for 
help : so she set about her little tasks of light- 
ing a handful of fire, and making a cr<p of tea 
for her mother, which she could not persuade 
her to touch. It was a dark and dreary winter’s 
morning, — so dark where she was living, that 
she could scarcely see her mother’s face. 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


II4 

Tha afternoon was fast fading into nigl t, — 
another night of misery and despair, — when 
Roger stole softly in, and crept gently up to the 
side of the bed where David’s mother lay. 
Bess was sitting by her, holding her hand 
closely, as if she could thus keep her in the 
world wheie her lot had been so hard. She had 
not spoken yet, and had scarcely moved since 
Roger had brought his fatal tidings the night 
before. Now, when her ear caught the sound 
of his low, awe-struck voice, she opened her 
eyes once more, and fastened them upon him. 
He stooped down, and spoke to her in a sorrow- 
ful whisper. 

*‘He’s got three months agen,” he said. 
‘‘Never mind! everybody gets into jail some- 
time o’ their lives ! ” 

Mrs. Fell’s lips moved tremulously, as the 
eyelids closed slowly over her dim eyes, which 
were losing sight of Bess, though she was lean- 
ing over her, and calling, “ Mother ! ” 

“ He migl t ha’ been a good man like his 
father!” she moaned with her dying breath 


blackett'5 threats. 


Ill 


CHAPTER X. 

Blackett’s threats. 

PARISH coffin and a paupers grave 



Ji \ were all the country had to give to the 
dead mother, whose son, in the ignorance and 
recklessness of boyhood, had broken the laws 
twice, and been each time visited with a harsh 
penalty. “ That servant which knew his lord’s 
will, and did it not, shall be beaten with many 
stripes. But he that knew not, and did commit 
things worthy of stripes, shall be beaten with 
few stripes.^* There is Christ’s rule. Do we, 
who sometimes pride ourselves as being the 
most Christian nation on the face of the earth, 
abide by that rule ? 

The mother was buried; and what was to 
become of Bess? No one was bound to take 
any care of her. She was old enough to see 


Il6 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

after herseK. There was the workhouse open 
to her, if she chose to apply for admission ; 
but, if she entered it, it would be to be sent cut 
to service, as a workhouse girl, in the course of 
a few weeks or months, untrained and untaught 
fit only for the miserable drudgery of the lowest 
service. There was not strength enough in her 
slight, ill-fed frame to enable her to keep bod}' 
and soul together at laundry-work, which was 
the only work she knew any thing of. There 
was no home, however wretched, to give her 
shelter, if she continued to sell water-cresseS 
in the streets. True, Blackett offered her the 
refuge of his lodgings, and Roger urged her 
eagerly to avail herself of his father’s kindness ; 
but Bess shrank away with terror from the 
mere thought of it. Blackett had been the 
object of her daily dread ever since her child- 
hood, and no change in his manner towards her 
could inspire her with confidence. 

When she came back from following her 
mother’s cofi^n to its pauper’s grave, she stole 
past Blackett’s door into the empty room be- 
yond, and sat down, worn out with grief and 
weariness, on the bedstead where her mother’s 


Blackett’s threats. 117 

corpse had been lying for the last three days. 
She had lived in the room alone with it, and 
she felt more lonely now that it was gone. 
Silent and motionless as it had been, with its 
half-closed eyelids, and the ashy whiteness of 
its face gleaming even in the dusk, it had been 
a companion to her, and she had not been afraid 
of it. Now it was gone, she was indeed alone. 

There was not a single article of furniture 
left in the room, except this low, rough pallet- 
bedstead, with the dingy sacking, bare of bed 
and bedclothes. Every thing else was gone. 
There was now no candlestick left, no teapot 
or cup, no flat-iron or poker, — not one of the 
small household goods of the poor. Bess had 
carried all the few possessions left to her, in a 
miscellaneous lot, to get what she could for 
them at the marine stores. She would have 
carried off the bedsteads if they had not been 
too heavy for her, or if her mother’s corpse 
had not been lying there. 

Euclid, her only friend, had not been near 
her these three days. The truth is that the 
poor old man was passing through a great and 
severe struggle, and it was not over yet He 


Il8 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

had grown in a measure fond of Bess, and his 
heart was grieved to the very core for her. 
But what was he to do.? he continually asked 
himself. What could a poor old man like him 
do .? He was terribly afraid of taking any addi- 
tional weight upon his over-burdened shoulders, 
especially now he was in sight of the goal. For 
the last year or two, as he felt the infirmities of 
age growing heavier, an unspeakable dread 
lodged in his inmost soul, lest, after all, he 
should fail in his life’s aim. Could he endure 
to see Victoria buried as Mrs. Fell was .? He 
had lurked in a dark corner of the staircase, 
and watched the rough and reckless way in 
which the rude, slight box, that could hardly be 
called a coffin, was bundled out of the house, 
and carried off along the street, followed by 
Bess alone as the only mourner for the dead. 
It had given a sharp and poignant prick to his 
hidden fears. How could he burden himself 
with the care of Bess while there was any 
chance of such an ending to his career, or, 
worse still, to Victoria’s ? If Victoria had been 
buried in her own coffin, as his wife and the 
other children had been, l:e might have taken 


Blackett’s threats. 


119 

up with Bess. But she seemed no neaier the 
gi ave than at the beginning of the winter : her 
health, or rather her complaint, whatever it was, 
remained stationary. Nc : he must not sacri- 
fice Victoria to Bess. 

Poor Bess ! But as she was sitting alone in 
the gathering twilight, bewildeVed with her sor- 
row, she heard the door softly opened, and as 
softly closed again. It was Victoria who had 
come in, after crawling feebly down the long 
flights of stairs, which she had mounted four 
months ago, in the autumn, for the last time as 
she thought. She could not speak yet, and she 
sat down breathless and silent beside the deso- 
late girl. There was a mournful stillness as of 
death in the room, though all around were 
echoing the busy, jarring noises of common 
life. 

** I don’t know much,” said Victoria at last in 
her low, weak voice; “but I’ve dreams some- 
times, lyin’ up there alone all day, and I seem 
to see quite plain some place where the sun is 
always shinin’, and folks are happy, and there 
mother is. ' I saw it last night, betwixt sleepin’ 
and wakin’, as plain as I see you. And your 


120 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


mother was there, Bess; and some one, 1 
couldn’t see his face, was leadin’ her to where 
the sun was warm and bright, and choosin* x 
good place for her to rest in ; and he looked as 
if he was watchin’ for any little bit o’ stone in 
the way, for fear she’d hurt her feet, like we 
might do wi’ a litfle, little child, just learnin’ to 
go alone. And, O Bess ! your mother turhed 
so as I could see her face ; and it was very pale, 
but very peaceful. There wasn’t any more pain 
in it.” 

“ Is it true ? ” sobbed Bess. 

“ I don’t know much,” repeated Victoria. ** I 
never went to school ; for father couldn’t pay for 
my schoolin’, and there wasn’t any law to make 
him. He’d have done it gladly ; but water- 
cresses isn’t much for a family to live on, and 
die on. But I think it must be true ; or how 
could I see it ? I told father what I’m tellin’ 
you ; and I said to him, ‘Father, it don’t matter 
very much about bein’ buried in our own coffins, 
if we get to a place like that after all.’ ” 

“Ani what did he say asked Bess. 

“He made a noise like ‘Umph!*’ ajid went 
off,” answered Victoria. 


Blackett’s threats. 


I2I 


*• If there was only somebody to tell us true ! ’ 
orobbed Bess again. 

“ Father won’t let the missioners come to see 
me,” weut on Victoria. He says they teaches 
cants to get coals, and he’d as soon get his coals 
from the parish. There was a sister o’ mother’s 
as was c m verted, and they put her into what 
they cab a report ; and father was that ashamed ! 
None on us had ever been in such a thing. We 
never had nothing to do with her, so as I don’t 
know if it’s true. Father says as he likes to see 
religion, and he don’t see nothink he could call 
religion in her, or in most folks as are converted 
and put in the report. I never knew rightly 
what converted means,” said Victoria, sighing 
sadly, and speaking in a low voice, as if to her- 
self. 

But Bess was thinking no longer of Victoria’s 
dreams. Her thoughts had gone in again, 
brooding over their own sorrows ; and she 
moaned with a very deep and bitter moaning. 

Oh ! what shall I do ? ” she cried. “ What 
shall I do.?” 

“I came to fetch you upstairs to live with 
us,” answered Victoria very softly. “ Father’ll 


122 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


be glad enough when it’s done. You’d be as 
good as another daughter to father if I was 
gone ; and nobody knows how soon that may 
be. He’s a bit shy and queer just now; but 
that’ll be gone when it’s all settled. You shall 
help me upstairs again, Bess ; and when father 
comes he’ll get somebody to help him carry 
these bedsteads up for you and me to sleep on. 
** It’ll be better for me than sleepin’ on the 
floor, you know.” 

“When Euclid reached home an hour later, 
he paused before going upstairs, and knocked 
at the door of Mrs. Fell’s room ; but there was 
no answer. He tried to open it ; but it was 
locked. Where could little Bess be ? he asked 
himself in sudden terror. She must be come 
back from the funeral by this time. Was it 
possible that she had taken shelter with Black- 
ett } The old man’s withered face tingled, and 
his frame shook as with ague, as the thought 
flashed across him. Whose fault would it be ? 
It was he who had forsaken Bess in her misery 
the fatherless, motherless, brotherless girl. He 
stood outside the closed and locked door, think- 
ing of her light footstep and pretty face trip 


Blackett’s threats. 


123 


ping along at his side every morning for the 
last two months. He had not known how 
closely she had crept to his heart until now the 
dread was beating against him that she was 
gone to Blackett. The old man’s gray and 
grim face grew grayer and grimmer. It would 
be a hard thing, no doubt, to follow Victoria to 
the grave in a pauper’s coffin ; but, oh ! it would 
be even harder to see Bess flaunting about the 
streets a lost and wretched creature. His con- 
science smote him sharply. And now what 
must he do.? What did he dare to do.? It 
would be like braving a lion in his den to face 
Blackett at his own fireside. Yet probably Bess 
was there. 

** God help this old tongue 0’ mine ! ” said Eu- 
clid half aloud, as, after some minutes of hesita- 
tion, he turned with desperate courage to knock 
at Blackett’s door. 

“ Come in ! ” shouted Blackett with a surly 
snarl. 

Euclid opened the door, and stood humbly on 
the threshold. It was a room less bare, but 
more squalid with dirt, than any other in the 
house. The woman who had been the mother 


124 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


of Blackett’s three sons had long -go disap 
peared ; and what little cleanliness and comfort i 
had once been known there had gone with her. 
The air was stifling with the fumes of tobacco ; 
and spirits, and Blackett was smoking over a i 
fireplace choked up with ashes. Roger, who | 
was bound hand and foot with strong cords, had j 
roiled himself out of easy reach of his father’s | 
kicks, and was lying in a corner with an expres- 
sion of terror and hatred on his face. But Bess 
was nowhere to be seen. ; 

*^Come in, and shut the door!” shouted ! 
Blackett. I 

“Mr. Blackett,” said Euclid, shutting the 
door behind him, with the long-sleeping courage | 
of manhood stirring in his old heart, “ have you 
seen aught of Mrs. Fell’s little Bess ? ” ' 

“ Ay, have I ! ” growled Blackett with an j 
oath. “Victoria’s been and fetched her up to |j 
your rat-hole ; and now I give you fair warning, | 
old fellow, if you go to harbor that girl. I’ll [ 
make this place too hot for you. I’ll keep a eye I 
on you going out and coming in, and you’ll I 
repent it sore. Get out o’ this like a shot, oi \ 
I’ll begin on it at once.” j; 


Blackett’s threats. 125 

But Euclid was off like a shot before 
Blackett had finished his threats, and was 
mounting to his garret with a suddenly glad- 
dened heart. ‘‘ Thank God ! thank God ! ” he 
repeated to himself, step after step up the long 
staircase. He had hardly heeded Blackett’s 
menaces, though they lodged themselves uncon- 
sciously in his mind, and came back to his 
memory when his first gladness was over. Bess 
had fallen asleep for sorrow on Victoria’s bed ; 
and he stooped over her, and laid his hard 
brown hand gently on her head, as if to 
welcome her to her new home, ‘‘God bless 
her ! ” he murmured. 

“ I sha’n’t care if you can’t bury me in my 
own coffin,” whispered Victoria, “ not a bitj’ 

“We’ll see about that, Victoria, my dear,” 
he answered with tears of mingled joy and fear 
glittering in his eyes’. “Please God, he’ll let 
me do 3s much as that I ” 


126 


IN PF.iSON AND OUT. 


CHAPTER XI. 

AN UNWILLING THIEF. 

B LACKETT’S hatred and vengeance were 
no mean forces which Euclid could afford 
to forget or disregard. His enemy had him at 
an advantage, inasmuch as he could neither go 
in nor out of the house without passing the 
door of his room, where he might be lurking in 
ambush against him. Euclid was a peaceable, 
inoffensive old man, who had kept himself aloof 
from his neighbors in dread of falling into dis- 
turbances. It worried him to feel that he had 
made such a man his enemy, and at times he 
reflected on the possibility of moving; but 
Victoria’s ill health and weakness seemed lo 
make that impossible, even if he could find an 
equally cheap attic in the neighborhood. 

He did not know it, nor did Victoria ; but for 


AN UNWILLING THIEF. 


127 


some time past a rumor had pervaded the house 
that old Euclid, the water-cress-seller, was a 
miser, — a miser, also, o£ the old-fashioned type, 
who kept his money in hard cash, and in his 
own hands. Some of his neighbors said he 
carried untold wealth about with him in the old 
waistcoat which he always wore, summer and 
winter, under his linen blouse. Others guessed 
that every chink and crevice in the walls of his 
garret contained bank-notes and coins, and that 
Victoria’s constant ill health was nothing but 
a blind to account for her never leaving the 
treasure unguarded. Both Euclid and Victoria 
became the objects of unusual attention; and 
Victoria, especially, was surprised and embar- 
rassed by the friendly visits of her neighbors 
during her father’s absence in the daytime, 
who came to offer her any assistance she 
needed. But Victoria was now quite independ- 
ent. Bess made the bed, and scrubbed the 
floor, and did the little shopping that had to be 
done ; an i the sick girl had never been so com- 
fortable and cared for in her life. 

No doubt it was Bess herself who had inno- 
cently set these rumors afloat. No one can tell 


128 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


whether she had hinted at it in any confidential | 
talk with Roger, or whether some prying neigh- ; 
bor, listening in the common entrance, had | 
overheard her telling her mother of the wonder^ | 
ful sight she had beheld through the chink in | 
old Euclid^s door. Bess was too busy to hear 
any thing of these whispered repK)rts, and they 
were not likely to reach the ears of Euclid and 
Victoria. Neither of these ever spoke of their ’ 
treasure in the presence of Bess, and Victoria I 
always carefully removed it from under her 
pillow before Bess made the bed. It had not i 
grown at all since Mrs. FelFs funeral-day ; nay, I; 

once it had been broken into to pay the rent. I 

Yet neither of them repented befriending Bess. [ 
One consequence of Bess living up in ,the 
garret was, that it became a not unusual cir- 
cumstance for Roger Blackett to mount up 
there, partly for her sake, and partly to seek a 
refuge from his father's cruel tyranny. Blackett 
knew it very well, but, with a crafty foresight 
that this might be useful some day, feigned an 
utter ignorance of this new intercourse. Roger i 
seldom showed his face whf>n Euclid was at j 
home; but Victoria soon grew used to seeing 


AN UNWILLING THIEF. 


129 


him creep in timidly, with his terrified, down^ 
cast face, and crouch on the hearth before the 
handful of fire, showing her the bruises on his 
arms and shoulders and back, where his father 
had been flogging him. He was an idler, 
weaker boy than David Fell, with less energy 
to swim against the tide of evil that was ready 
to sweep him away in its current. But as yet 
he had never fallen into the hands of the police ; 
and now he promised Victoria, as he had been 
wont to promise Mrs. Fell, that he would always 
be a good boy, and keep from being a thief. 

To Victoria it was pleasant to have this fresh 
young life of Bess and Roger coming about 
her to divert the dreary solitude of her illness. 
She had had no companionship except that of 
an old man borne down by cares ; and Euclid 
was amazed to find how cheerful she grew, and 
how much less the winter was trying her than 
he had feared The change, though he did not 
grudge Bess her home, was not so welcome to 
him as to Victoria. The mere fact that he 
rculd never speak of his own aim in life before 
Bess, nor count over his hoard as he had been 
ustd to do, made him more anxious about it, 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


130 

and he could not gei the thought of it out ol 
his head while he was away all day crying his 
cresses in the distant streets. 

“Victoria, my dear,” he said one evening, 
when be was home before Bess, and had treated 
himself to a hasty and furtive glance at his 
treasure, “ Tm castin’ about in my mind if we 
couldn’t find a safer place for it, now we’ve so 
many strange folks about us. If I only knew 
somebody as ’ud take good care on it for us.’’’ 

“ It’s never from under my pillow, father,” 
answered Victoria, with a smile. “It’s as safe 
as safe can be. Don’t you fidget, daddy.” 

“ If I could only lock the door when we go 
out i’ th’ mornin’,” sighed old Euclid. 

“And leave me locked up all day!” said 
Victoria, laughing. 

“Bess has been with us four weeks,” he 
went on, “and we have’nt put a penny to it. 
And Blackett gives me a curse every time be 
catches sight on me.” 

“Fathei,” she said earnestly, “I’d ten times 
rather be buried in a parish coffin than turn j 
Bess away into the streets.” 

“Ay I fo would I for myself, lass,” he an- ^ 


AN UNWILLING THIEF. I3I 

swered. “But it 'ud be hard work to me to 
follow thee in a parish coffin.” 

It was still as dark as midnight at foul 
o’clock the next morning, when Euclid and 
Bess, after giving Victoria a cup of tea, left 
her to sleep away the remainder of the night 
until daybreak. Her best and soundest sleep 
generally came to her after they were gone, 
and she was alone in the quiet garret, pas: 
which no foot could tramp, and above which 
was the roof inhabited only by the sparrows. 

If Euclid and Bess could have looked through 
the panels of Blackett’s door as they passed it, 
they would have seen that he was up, and 
listening ; and that Roger was cowering behind 
him, with a scared and haggard expression on 
his wretched face. In about a quarter of an 
hour after their departure, Roger was being 
pushed on by his father, with smothered threats 
and curses in his ears, up the dark staircases, 
and past the doors of the rooms, whose inmates 
would be all astir in another hour or less. 
Roger crept slowly and reluctantly up the last 
steep flight, and lingered a moment at Euclid’s 
door, w'lile Blackett stood half-way below him, 


132 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


a black figure in the deep gloom, beckoning to 
him with a threatening gesture to go onwards. 

Roger pushed the latchless door gently, and 
f^und that it was not fastened within, but 
yielded at once to his touch. The small fire 
of coals and wood, lit by Bess, had smouldered 
down, and showed only a line of red between 
two lowest bars ; yet the faint light it gave fell 
upon the pale face of Victoria, already sleeping 
a quiet and restful slumber. He looked from 
that pale, sleeping face, back to the tall black 
figure in the darkness, with its uplifted and 
clinched fist menacing him, and he strode noise- 
lessly into the room. Still he paused for some 
minutes, dreading to go on, though not daring 
to go back. Victoria was kind and good to 
him ; but his father was threatening to kill him 
if he did not execute his commands. Why had 
he ever learned that old Euclid was a miser, 
and had heaps of money.?, and, oh! how could 
it be that he had ever betrayed to his father 
the secret he had found out, — that Victoria 
guarded some precious bundle under her pih 
low .? If he must be a thief, he would a thou 
sand times rather steal from any one than her. 


AN UNWILLING THIEF. 


133 


A very slight, but to Roger a very terrible, 
sound upon the staircase, filled him with a 
sudden courage. He stretched himself on the 
floor, and crawled forward to Victoria’s side. 
Very warily and softly his fingers stole up, and 
under her pillow, where the precious bundle 
lay. He drew it so slowly and gently towards 
him, that, though Victoria moved a little rest- 
lessly, and put her hand up sleepily as if to 
guard it, she did not wake. In a few moments 
it lay in his grasp, and he was crawling back 
across the floor to the dark staircase. The 
door creaked a little on its rusty hinges as he 
closed it after him ; and he heard Victoria’s 
voice calling out drowsily, “Good-by, father.” 

It was after mid-day before Victoria got up ; 
for she was neither so hungry nor so cold in 
bed, and it saved firing to lie still as long as 
she could bear it. She had asked Roger the 
day before to come up for some pence to buy 
chips and coal, and he had promised readily to 
do it ; but he did not come. She had just chips 
enough to kindle the fire, and sufficient coal to 
keep it alight till Bess or her father should come 
home. But she could not help wondering what 


134 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


cruelty of his father’s was keeping him away, as 
she watched the tiny tongues of flame, which 
had to be carefully cherished lest they should 
die out altogether before the coal was lit. She 
felt hopeful and happy. The late Februar^f 
days were come, and the sky was clearer ; the 
dense fogs were almost gone for another spell 
of summer weather; and the clouds that still 
hung gray above the streets had gleams of blue 
breaking through them. The deepest misery of 
the year was over. The days were longer, and 
would soon be warmer. There was no dreary 
mid-winter to tide over. Victoria, watching her 
small fire, not quite kindled yet, sang feebly to 
herself in a piping, tremulous voice ; and her 
wan face wore a brighter smile than it had done 
for months. 

‘‘ Why, there’s father cornin’ up the stairs ! ” 
she exclaimed. ‘‘He’s more than an hour 
early.” 

It was Euclid, who came in with an empty 
basket and a pleased face. He had had uncom- 
m()n good luck, he said, as he sat down before 
the fire, and stretched his wrinkled old hands 
over the flame and smoke. He had been reck- 


AN UNWILLING THIEF. 


135 


oning up as he came along home, and he could, 
spare sevenpence halfpenny to add to the 
hoard, and so make it level money. Euclid 
was always uneasy in his mind when his dejjosit 
was not level money. Now Bess was away, and 
sure to be away for another hour or more, he 
could count the money over, and feast his eyes 
upon it, — the only pleasure he had in the 
world. 

“It does my old heart good, Victoria, my 
dear,” he said, turning up the old soap-box on 
end. “ It’s as if it made up for all the pipes I 
never smoke, and the victuals I never eat, and 
the sights as I never see. Mfike the door fast, 
my dear, and you and me’ll have a treat.” 

Victoria fastened the door with a forked stick, 
brought from the market, laughing a low, quiet 
laugh, in which Euclid joined hoarsely, yet 
heartily. It was as great a treat to him to hear 
her laugh as to count up his money. 

“ I’ve heerd a learned man — a great scholar 
he was,” said Euclid, “ as had read a heap o* 
books — talk o’ bein’ as rich as creases; but 
whatever he could ha’ meant by it, I could 
never make out yet. I’ve puzzled over it many 


136 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

and many a nour. If he’d said as cold as 
creases, or yet as green as creases, I could ha’ 
understood. But as rich as creases, Victoria, 
my dear ! ” 

Don’t ask me, father,” she answered, “ I’m 
no scholar. We’ve lived on creases ; but we’ve 
never got rich on ’em.” 

‘‘ Ay, we’ve lived and died on ’em,” said Eu- 
clid contemplatively. ** If we could have all the 
money as ever we spent, all that’s gone in rent, 
and victuals and clothin’ and ceterer, we might, 
maybe, ha’ grown rich by creases ; but then 
where should we ha’ been ? ” 

Victoria had lifted up her pillow as he spoke, 
half to himself and half to her. She stood for 
an instant gazing down in bewilderment. The 
old cotton handkerchief, once white with a red 
border round it, but grown yellow and dingy 
with age, and with much knotting and unknot- 
ting, — the familiar little bundle that had been 
her father’s purse ever since she could remem- 
ber, — did not lie in its accustomed place. She 
pushed aside the parcel of rags which served 
Bess as a pillow; but it was not there. She 
shook the clothes with a trembling hand, and 


AN UNWILLING THIEF. 1 37 

then sank down on the bedstead, sick and faint 
with alarm. 

“Father!’* she breathed in a low, gasping 
voice, “ it’s gone ! ” 

For a moment old Euclid gazed at her in a 
dreamy, absent manner, muttering, “As rich as 
creases ! ” as though he did not hear her speak. 

“Father!” she cried again, in a louder tone, 
“ our money’s gone ! ” 

“ Gone ! ” he repeated. 

“ It’s not here ! ” she answered. “ It’s been 
stolen ! stolen ! I remember now. There was 
a click of the door, after I’d fallen asleep, and I 
called out, * Good-by, father!* and it was a 
thief ! O father, father I what shall we do } ” 

Euclid had started to his feet, and stood trem- 
bling and shivering with the shock of terror. 
Gone ! Stolen ! The little hoard of money he 
had scraped together with so many hardships 
and cares, so much labor and self-denial ! The 
money he might want, before the bleak winds of 
March were gone, to bury his last child in her 
own coffin. Was it possible that God would 
allow a thief to steal in, and rob him of such a 
sacred treasure ? Euclid’s heart answered. Yes, 


138 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

it was possible : it had come to pass, this over- 
whelming disaster, and his very soul seemed to 
die within him. 

He sat down again in his broken old chaii ; 
for he felt too feeble to hold himself up, and he 
hid his withered, ashy-pale face in his hands. 
All the misery and privation and pinching 
poverty of his sixty years of life seemed to 
rush back upon him, and roll like a full tide 
over his crushed spirit. After all his toil and 
suffering, he would be forced to go upon the 
parish, if not to-day or this week, well, in a few 
weeks, or in a few months at the farthest. He 
might as well give up at once; for he could 
never save so much money again. And Victo- 
ria! Now, if she should fall ill, even a little 
worse, she must be taken away from him, and 
go into the workhouse hospital, to die there, 
among strange bad women, uncared-for, weep- 
ing her last bitter tears on a parish pillow; 
whilst he, parted from her, was perhaps laying 
his old gray head on another parish pillow, and 
turning his face to the wall to hide his bitter 
tears. 

‘‘I must stir up,'* he said at last, rising 


AN UNWILLING THIEF. 1 39 

Stiffly and slowly from his chair, as if he felt 
himself to be a very old, infirm man : I must 
fetch the police, Victoria.” 

It was not long before a policeman mounted 
up to Euclid’s garret, and heard the whole 
story of the loss. Nor was it very long, after 
inquiring who visited them the oftenest, and 
after seeking a little information among the 
neighbors, who very eagerly supplied it, before 
he fixed upon Roger and his father, who bore 
the worst character in the house. Before an 
hour had passed, Roger was lodged in the 
nearest police-station, and Blackett was being 
sought for in all his usual places of resort 


140 


IN PKISON ANI> OUT, 


CHAPTER XIL 
victoria’^s coffin. 

B ut Blackett was nowhere to be found 
He had taken his glazier's tools, and a 
sheet or two of glass on his back, and gone 
away into the country to seek for stray jobs in 
the shape of broken panes. There was no 
trace of the lost money in his room ; and 
though Roger, in his fright, had owned to hav- 
ing stolen it, and added that he had given the 
whole of it to his father, there was no evidence 
to prove the truth of his assertion. Roger's 
terrified st'^tements were full of contradictions 
and falsehoods. He was ready to assert or 
deny any thing, and he was remanded until his 
father could be found and summoned ; whilst 
Euclid and Victoria were bidden to hold them- 
selves in readiness to appear whenever their 
evidence should be wanted. 


victoria’s coffin. 


I4I 

For the next few days, Euclid, a broken- 
spirited, hopeless old man, dragged his heavy 
feel over his old rounds, crying, *^Cre-she! 
cre-she ! ” mournfully, as if by some cruel magic 
a spell had been cast. over him, and he was 
doomed to tread the dreary streets, with bowed- 
down head and dragging limbs, uttering no 
other word but Cre-she ! ” His eyes dis- 
cerned nothing save Victoria being carried be- 
fore him in a parish coffin. He did not even 
see Blackett, on the evening of his return from 
his expedition after work, lying in wait to watch 
him come home, and jeering after him as he 
shambled along the passage and up the stairs. 

It had been a hard day’s work for Euclid, 
and he was long behind his time, Bess and 
Victoria had been looking out for him anxiously 
the last hour or more; and they made much 
of him, as if they could not do enough to com- 
fort him. But he sat silent and downcast, and 
only shook his shaggy gray head despondently 
when Victoria gave him a cup of tea, 

“ Daddy ! ” she said, ** what’s ailin’ you ? ” 
‘‘You know, Victoria!” he answered sadly 
and reproachfully. “ God hasn't helped my 


142 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


poor old legs to keep you and me off the parish. 
Your poor mother when she lay a-dyin*, with 
you on her poor arm, she said as she were sure 
he’d do as much as that ; and he hasn’t.” 

“ Have you been to ask help of the parish ? ” 
inquired Bess, with eyes round with wonder 
and alarm. 

“ No, no, child ! not yet ! ” he replied, a tinge 
of brownish red creeping over his grim yet pale 
lace. ** It’s not come to that as yet. But, as I 
come down the street here in the dusk, there 
walked alongside of me a parish funeral, — not a 
real funeral, only the shadow of one, as you 
may say ; and I knowed it were Victoria’s. It 
were Victoria’s ! ” he repeated, his voice break- 
ing down into a sob. 

“Father!” cried Victoria, “daddy! how do 
you know as I shall want a funeral or a coffin ? ” 

Euclid lifted up his head, and checked his 
sobs, gazing at the only child left to him, with 
his dim old eyes half blinded with tears. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she went on, “as 
we’ve been almost making believe as if I must 
want a coffin o’ my own very soon. Maybe 
God hasn’t let V-S keep that money, beca jse he 


victoria’s coffin. 


143 


doesn’t mean me to die just yet. I’ve been 
thinkin’ hard ever since it was stole ; and that’s 
what’s come into my head, father. Perhaps 
God knows I sha’n’t want a coffin o’ my own 
yet ; and there was some harm, maybe, in our 
settin’ our minds on it.” 

** Not want a coffin ! ” repeated Euclid in- 
credulously. 

‘*No,” she said, with a faint smile. “I think 
the thought of it has helped to make me ill. I 
could go to the p’leece-court after the money 
was stole, and I’m none the worse for it ; and 
the p’leece has been here to bid us go again 
to-morrow, and I feel quite sharp and stirred- 
up like. And I’ve slept sounder since the 
money’s been gone away from under my head. 
It was always sayin’ quietly in my ear, ^Pm 
goin’ to buy you a coffin ! I’m a-goin’ to buy a 
coffin for you I ’ And then I’d dream of my 
funeral, and you being left all alone, father. 
No, God doesn’t mean me to want a coffin 
yet, I think.” 

Old Euclid sat motionless and speechless, 
his bowed head lifted up, and his hands firmly 
grasping his knees, as he gazed fixedly at his 


144 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


daughter. She was very pale, very thin, a 
small, delicate, weakly creature ; but her eyes 
were brighter, and her face happier, than he 
had seen them since she was a little, untroubled 
child, not old enough to understand his diffi 
culties and toil. The tears started to her eyes 
for a moment as she met his gaze; but she 
laughed and nodded to him as she wiped them 
away. If God meant to leave him Victoria, 
how could he fret about her coffin ? 

His sleep was disturbed that night ; but the 
waking thoughts that drove it away were happy 
)nes. Had he thought himself an old worn-out 
man a few hours before.^ Why, there were 
years of work in him yet ; and he would start 
afresh after to-morrow. If he could only lay 
by twopence a day — one shilling a week — for 
the next two years, that would more than ' re- 
turn his lost treasure. But it should never lie 
under Victoria’s pillow again, to sing that dis- 
mal song into her ear. He must find a banker 
for it ; and it should grow without her knowl- 
edge. Then his heart softened towards Roger, 
poor lad ! What could he do with such a 
father.^ One of his own boys had died about 


victoria’s coffin. 


145 


his age; and he thought with peaceful regret 
of him, bleniing the tw) lads together in his 
half-waking, half-dreamy thoughts. 

Bess had to start off for the market alone 
the next morning, leaving Euclid to go to the 
police-court to appear against Roger. He and 
Victoria set out in good time, and had to wait 
a long while in the large entrance-court of it, 
whilst a squalid and rough crowd of men, 
women, and children gathered together. Vic- 
toria, in her long seclusion in her garret, had 
been kept very much apart from her neigh- 
bors ; and the brutal faces, and rough, coarse 
manners of this crowd frightened her. She 
was glad when an officer summoned her and 
her father into the court. 

They had been there before; yet still the 
place looked vast and imposing to them, though 
it was but a small and dimly lighted hall. 
There were about fifty spectators in it, stand- 
ing in a small space at the back, looking 
on and listening in almost unbroken silence. 
Roger stood at the bar, opposite, the magistrate, 
looking miserable and bewildered. Blackett, 
dressed decently, like a thoroughly respectable 


146 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


workman, glanced towards him, from time to 
time, with a glance that made him shiver. 
Euclid and Victoria gave their evidence again ; 
and the policeman who had arrested Roger told 
what he had said in admission of the theft. 
There was no doubt of his guilt; but was 
his father an accomplice ? 

There might be a strong suspicion of it in 
every mind ; but there was no proof. Blackett 
told the magistrate that Roger was a confirmed 
liar, as well as a confirmed thief. He had often 
beaten him for his bad conduct, and done his 
utmost to correct him. He himself had been 
so hard up for money on the day of the rob- 
bery, that he had been compelled to go out 
and seek work through the country. Not a 
shilling or a penny could be traced to him ; 
and, if the lad swore he had given it all to him, 
it was only one out of a thousand lies. He 
would be glad to have him sent to prison, 
where he would be taken care of, and taught a 
trade. 

I’ve got somethin* more to say,** exclaimed 
Euclid, stepping briskly into the witness-box 
as soon as Blackett quitted it 


victoria’s cob fin. 


H7 

He stood in it as if it had been a kind of 
pulpit, and he a rugged, unkempt, grim old 
preacher. His ragged gray hair fell over his 
wrinkled forehead almost to the shaggy eye- 
brows, under which his dim and faded eyes 
gleamed again for a few minutes with his 
earnestness and resolution. He grasped the 
wood-work before him with both his hands, 
and turned his gaze alternately from the magis- 
trate to Roger. 

“Don’t you send him to jail, my worship!” 
he exclaimed in a tone of fervent entreaty. 
“I forgive him free, and Victoria forgives 
him. It were the money for her coffin he 
stole ; and it’s come to her mind as God 
doesn’t mean to let her die yet, and she’ll 
not want a coffin as soon as I thought. I was 
afeard the parish ’ud have to bury her. The 
parish ! ” he cried in a shriller voice, which 
rang through the court. “I was afeard o’ 
that, or I’d never ha’ gone for the police, — 
never! He’s only a young, little lad, m> 
worship; and, if you send him to jail, he’ll 
grow up a thief. His two brothers has been 
in jail, and they’re both thieves for good now. 


148 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


I can^t call ’em jail-birds : they’re jail-chicke.is, 
my worship. O my worship! try summat 
else with Roger. Try what keepin* him out 
u' jail ’ill do; for it’s done no good to his 
brothers. It makes my heart sore to think as 
Victoria and me should ha’ helped at makin’ 
him a thief. Jail’s no good for young lads ; no 
good at all. I’m a old man, and I’ve seen 
enough of it. If you’ll only let him go free, 
my good worship, I’ll forgive him ; and Victoria 
forgives him. Only let us never sit at home o’ 
nights, and think as he’s been sent to jail, and 
made a thief of, by her and me.” 

Euclid had spoken rapidly and eagerly, utterly 
disregarding the somewhat feeble efforts of the 
nearest policeman to silence him. All who 
were in the court listened, as men always listen 
to urgent, warm-hearted pleading. Victoria’s 
sad and wan little face, turned towards Roger, 
pleaded for him as eloquently; and the boy, 
dropping his face into his hands, broke out into 
a loud cry as Euclid finished speaking. A 
gentleman, who was sitting on a seat behind 
the officials of the court, wrote a few words hur- 
riedly on a slip of paper, and had it passed to 


victoria’s coffin. 


149 

the magistrate, who glanced at it, and then 
turned to Euclid. 

At your request,” he said, I shall not pass 
sentence on this lad to-day, but remand him for 
another week. Some inquiries shall be made 
into Blackett’s circumstances and means of 
helping to pay for the maintenance of his son, 
and also if any industrial school is open to take 
him. Blackett, if your two older sons are 
thieves, it speaks very badly for you ; and I 
shall direct the police to keep an eye upon you 
and your movements. You may go now.” 

There was an ominous scowl of hatred on 
Blackett’s face as he crushed past Euclid and 
Victoria on their way out. Euclid caught sight 
of it; but he did not speak of it to Victoria, 
who was overjoyed to think of Roger escaping 
the doom that had threatened him, and very 
proud to think that her father had spoken up 
so well before the justice. It would be some- 
thing to remember and talk of for many a long 
day. 

But when Bess, coming home in the evening, 
heard the good news about Roger, she burst 
out into a passion of sobs and tears. It was 


150 


IN PRIf^ON AND OUT. 


not that Roger was saved, but that David was 
lost. ** O mother ! mother ! ” she cried again 
and again, “if they’d only done the same by 
him 1 And mother always said he’d ha’ made 
a good man like father 1 ** 


GLAD TIDINGS. 


I5I 


CHAPTER XIII. 

GLAD TIDINGS. 

I T was two or three days after .his, when 
Euclid and Bess had come in from their 
cress-selling in the evening, that a loud, strange 
knock at the door of their garret struck alarm 
into the hearts of all the three. Blackett had 
not hitherto molested any of them ; but they 
lived in daily terror of him, and some of their 
neighbors had warned them to look out for 
danger. Victoria and Bess uttered a low 
scream, and Euclid shuffled across the floor 
to fasten the staple ; but already a. hand had 
pushed it a little wider open from the outside, 
and he could see in the dim light that it was a 
stranger who was standing there, and a strangef 
not • n the dress of a policeman. 

“ .Vlay I come in ? asked a pleasant voice. 


152 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


“Air you a friend, or a^r vou a enemy?” 
inquired Euclid. 

“A friend, surely!” answered the stranger. 
“My name is Dudley, John Dudley; and I 
bring you news of Roger Blackett. I saw you 
and Victoria in the court the other day.” 

“Come in! come in!” exclaimed Euclid, 
throwing the door wide open : “ you’re kindly 
welcome.” 

The daylight still lingered in the garret, and 
they could see plainly the pleasant yet grave 
face of the gentleman who entered, and whose 
simple and easy manner made them feel confi- 
dence in him at once. Victoria set the only 
chair there was for him, arid he took it as if he 
had been a familiar guest ; whilst Euclid seated 
himself on the soap-box, and the two girls on 
the side of the bed. Mr. Dudley looked at 
them both inquiringly. 

“You were frightened when I knocked at 
the door ? ” he said. 

“ Ay, ay ! ” answered Euclid. “ We’re all 
scared a'most to death at Blackett. He’s like 
a ragin’ lion ; and we canna go in nor out wilh- 
out passin’ by his door, sir.” 


GLAD TIDINGS. 


153 


“ I’m afraid he’ll be worse,” said Mr. Dudley ; 
“for he is to pa}) half-a-crown a week for the 
keep of his son Roger.” 

“Then we shall ha’ to flit somewheres,” said 
Euclid mournfully, ‘‘and we’ve lived here nigh 
upon ten years, me and Victoria. It’s hard 
upon peaceful folks like us, and Victoria can’t 
take away her pretty picters. Look here, sir ! 
we’ve been ten years a-gettin’ ’em together ; 
and, if we are forced to flit, we must leave ’em 
all behind us.” 

Above the fireplace, against the wall of the 
projecting chimney, there was a collection of 
poor, coarse wood-cuts out of cheap illustrated 
papers, pasted upon the whitewashed plaster 
close against one another as they had come 
into Victoria’s possession. Euclid pointed 
them out with pride mingled with sorrow as he 
thought of how these treasures must be left 
behind if they were compelled to quit the 
garret for other lodgings. He sat down with 
a heavy sigh after he called Mr. Dudley’s atten- 
lion to Victoria’s favorite pictures. 

“Are you fond of reading, as well as of pic 
tures ? ” asked Mr Dudley. 


154 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


“None on us can read,” answered Euclid 
“Victoria was always too weakly to go to 
school wi’ a lot o* rough lads and lasses, she's 
so nesh and simple. And little Bess there is 
no scholar : she gets her livin’, like me, sellin’ 
creases. Bess is a old neighbor’s child, sir, not 
mine ; and Blackett’s hated me ever since I took 
her to live with me and Victoria. He said he’d 
make the place too hot for me then ; but 
now ” — 

He shook his gray head dejectedly, and 
glanced up at his collection of pictures with a 
fond and regretful gaze. 

“ I thought the other day in the court, when 
you pleaded for poor Roger, that you must be a 
religious man,” said Mr. Dudley. 

“ Oh, dear, no ! ” answered Euclid in a sur- 
prised tone. “ I don’t rightly know religion : 
it’s above me ; for I’m no scholar. I should like 
it, maybe, if I knew it ; and my wife, she was 
a good woman, she was.” 

“Do you know nothing of cur Lord Jesus 
Christ?” asked Mr. Dudley. 

“ I’ve heard the name,” he said reflectively. 
“ Oh, yes ! of course I’ve heard the name ; but 


GLAD TIDINGS. 


155 


Tve had no time to inquire into such things, 
and they puzzle my head when I hear talk of 
them. Jesus Christ! Ay, I do know the name 
well, sir. My wife knew all about him, I dare 
say. She died when Victoria were born. Poor 
dear ! She could say texts and hymns, — lots 
as I forgot; but some on 'em I remembered 
long enough to teach 'em to Victoria. Victoria, 
my dear, do you know any think o' Lord Jesus 
Christ.?" 

“Not much, father," she answered tremu- 
lously, and leaning forward with her pale, eager 
face in gaze at the stranger, who was beginning 
to talk about what she had often longed to hear, 

“You've heard of Queen Victoria.?" said 
Mr. Dudley. 

“Ay!" answered Euclid, “there's a many 
streets and taverns called after her." 

“ If you heard," continued the stranger in a 
very quiet, yet clear, impressive voice, “that 
Queen Victoria was so filled with trouble and 
sorrow for folks like you, that she had sent her 
own son, and that he had quite willingly left 
the splendid and beautiful palace where they 
live, to come and live in this street here among 


156 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


you, working for his own bread like all of you 
are doing, and spending all his spare lime 
in teaching the children, and nursing the sick 
people, and helping the neighbors in every way 
he could, nevei growing tired of them, but try- 
ing to make them as good as himself, — what 
would you think of him ? 

**rd lay my hands under his feet!’* cried 
Bess in an eager tone. 

“There’d be no goodness like that in this 
world ! ” said Euclid. 

And if he went on,” continued Mr. Dudley, 
** week after week, month after month, and year 
after year, never going home to his mother’s 
palace, only sending messages to her from time 
to time, because he was bent upon making 
you all as good and as happy as himself, and 
fitting you to go and live with him as his friends 
in his own palace; and if some of you loved 
him, but most of you hated him, and those 
who hated him raised a mob against him, and 
killed him, and he had only time to send a last 
message to Queen Victoria, and the message 
was, ‘ Mother, forgive them : they do not know 
what they are doing ’ — what should you say to 
that.?” 


GLAD TIDINGS. 


157 


** There never was such goodness ! ** ex- 
claimed Euclid, whilst Victoria’s dark eyes 
were fastened on the stranger. 

Suppose he was even now in the street, and 
you heard his voice calling, ‘Come to me, all 
you that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will 
give you rest!’ would you go to him.?” asked 
Mr. Dudley. 

“I’d follow him to the end of the world!” 
answered old Euclid, striking his hands together, 
and half rising from his seat, as if to start 
instantly on his pilgrimage. 

“ That’s one o’ mother’s texts,” said Victoria 
in a timid voice. 

“Yes,” continued Mr. Dudley, “they are 
the words of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. 
Did you never hear this : ‘There is joy in the 
presence of the angels of God over one sinner 
that repents ’ .? Do you think that is true .? ” 

“Ay, it must be true,” answered Euclid; 
“for my wife’s gone to heaven, and she’ll have 
joy, I know, over Roger, if he turns out good.” 

“Those are the words of Jesus Christ, the 
Son of God,” said Mr. Dudley. “And now, 
if you could look down into the street, and see 


158 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


such a man as we spoke cf, the Queen’s son, 
looking round him sorrowfully on the drunken 
men and miserable women and wretched chil- 
dren here, and you could hear him say, * I am 
come to seek and to save those who are lost,' 
should you believe him ? ” 

“I should! I should!” said Euclid, with 
tears in his dim old eyes. 

“Jesus Christ said that,” continued Mr. 
Dudley. “And if you could hear him say to 
you and Victoria and Bess, * Let not your 
hearts be troubled : ye believe in God, believe 
also in me. In my Father’s house there is 
plenty of room : I am going to prepare a place 
for you all. And, if I go, I will come again, 
and take you there myself, that where I am 
you may be also.’ Tell me, what would you 
say to that ? What would you think of him ? ” 

“ God bless him ! ” cried old Euclid, sobbing ; 
whilst Victoria’s eyes shone with a bright light, 
and Bess listened with parted lips. 

“The very night before his enemies killed 
him, Jesus Christ said that, and left it as a 
I message to every one who should believe in 
him,” said Mr. Dudley “ What a pity you 


GLAD TIDINGS. 


*59 


have not known him all your lives! 'God so 
loved the world that he gave his only begotten 
Son, that whosoever believeth in him should 
not perish, but have everlasting life.’ If you 
could read, Euclid, there is a small book which 
tells us all we know of Jesus Christ, the Son 
of God ; and all he said and did is as true for 
us now, as it was then, before his enemies rose 
against him, and crucified him.** 

" Fm afeard Fm too old to learn now,” said 
Euclid regretfully ; " but Victoria there has 
plenty o’ time, if anybody ’ud teach her; and, 
if she’s not a-goin’ to die soon, it ’ud be com- 
pany for her to have that little booL And 
Bess must learn somehow. I never knew as 
Jesus Christ said any think like that, 'Come 
to me, poor laborin’ folks, when your load’s 
heavy, and I’ll give you rest;’ and 'There’s 
joy in heaven over sinners when they repent ; ’ 
and ' Fm come to find and save lost folks ; * 
ay, and all the other words you’ve told us. 
' They don’t know what they’re doin’.* Ah ! 
that’s true. It’s true of me, and true o* 
Blackett and Roger and all on us! No, no! 
we don’ know what we’re doin’ 1” 


l60 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

**V\l find some one to teach Victoria and 
Bess/* said the stranger ; and Roger will be 
well taught. He is going down the river to 
the ship ‘ Cleopatra/ where he will be trained 
for a seaman, and taught how to read and 
write. I thought you would be glad to know 
that.’* 

“ Oh ! if Davy could only ha* gone where 
Roger’s goin* ! *’ said Bess sorrowfully. 

Mr. Dudley listened attentively to the story 
of David Fell’s crimes against his country and 
her laws, and the measure of stripes meted 
out for them; and, learning the name of the 
jail where he was now imprisoned, he went 
away, promising to see them again soon. 


MRS. LINNETt’s lodgings. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MRS. LINNETT’s lodgings. 

OHN DUDLEY went away with a heavier 



heart than when he came to bring good 


news of Roger. If one boy was saved, the 
other seemed irretrievably lost. He knew too 
well one inevitable result of sending boys to 
prison, — the forfeiture of their only wealth, 
the wealth of a good name. If David came 
out of jail neither degraded nor corrupted by 
contact with confirmed criminals, — a thing he 
hardly dared to hope, — he would still bear 
about with him, at the very beginning of his 
life, the stigma of being a convict and a felon ! 

Dudley’s blood boiled and his heart acherl 
with mingled indignation and sorrow, as he 
paced slowly along the narrow and dirty street 
which had been at once David Fell's school and 


162 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


playground. Scarcely a decent man or woman 
met his eye, and his ear heard oaths and 
speeches such as had been the common lan- 
guage surrounding David from his earliest 
childhood. Yet what had the boy been guilty 
of.^ Untaught, untrained, with no instruction 
but the vile and coarse lessons of a London 
slum, he had kept true to the only faith he 
had, — his faith in an honest and industrious 
father. He had striven to his utmost to be 
honest and industrious, and he had not failed. 
His crimes had been — begging for his mothei 
when she was dying of hunger ; and resenting 
— hotly, perhaps, but bravely — an insult to his 
mother’s good name, when that was maligned 
by the man who had robbed her. 

Misery and degradation and crime lay all 
about Dudley as he turned homewards ; and for 
the moment it seemed a hopeless task to en- 
deavor to raise this dead mass of a city’s lowest 
population from its ignorance and savagery. 
And what if the law did not aid him > If the 
best of these young barbarians, yielding to his 
natural instincts, broke the laws he did not 
know, and was arrested by a Christian people 


MRS. LINNETT’s lodgings. 


163 

not to be wisely and gently dealt with, but to 
be set forevermore against society, every man’s 
hand against him, and his hand against every 
man, what chance was there for him and his 
fellow-laborers to work any deliverance ? 

John Dudley paced along the streets, deep 
in thought, yet taking unconscious notice of 
the groups of loafing, ill-fed, ill-clad lads who 
thronged the causeways. His mind was ponder- 
ing over a book he had been reading lately, — 
a very popular book, which has been a favorite 
with all the upper and middle classes of Great 
Britain. It was Tom Brown’s School-Days.” 
The school was Rugby; the head master. Dr. 
Arnold, a man called to his post by God him- 
self, and set there as a pattern and example to 
all schoolmasters. Every boy in the school 
was the son of a well-to-do, if not a wealthy, 
father. But, oh ! the scrapes those boys got 
into, and got out of ! the crimes against English 
law they committed ! Had the same measure 
been meted to them that every day was meted 
to these desolate, degraded, uncared-for street- 
lads, how many a brave and worthy English 
gentleman — ay, an/i magistrate — of the pres- 


164 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


ent day must now have been a gray-haired 
convict in penal servitude ! He had known 
boys and girls under fifteen years of age sent 
to jail for breaking down a rotten fence; for 
throwing a stone, and unintentionally breaking 
a window ; for snatching an apple off a stall, or 
a penny loaf out of a baker’s shop ; or for steal- 
ing a few turnips from a field, and a handful of 
corn from a sheaf. But what were these tres- 
passes compared with many committed, day 
after day, by schoolboys in every school in the 
kingdom ? No doubt the schoolboys were pun- 
ished ; but they were not cast, in the name of 
law and justice, into a gulf from which there 
was no clear escape in this life. 

By and by his thoughts turned to old Euclid. 
It was quite plain that he must move away 
from his garret, now Blackett’s hatred was so 
greatly provoked. Put where must he go.? 
Could nothing better be found than that miser- 
able attic, with its thin roof of slates and lath- 
and plaster ceiling, as the sole shelter against 
the frosts and snows of winter and the hct sun 
of summer .? No wonder that girl looked like 
a ghost, with her small, wan face, and emaciated 
frame ! Could nothing be done for them ? 


MRS. LINNETt’s lodgings. 1 65 

At last his face brightened, and he tuined 
hastily southwards, towards the river. Pie 
went on nearly to the docks, and then entered 
a short and quiet street. A fresh breeze blew 
up from the water, chilly enough this February 
night, but giving promise of a pleasant air on a 
summer’s day. He paused at a little shop with 
miscellaneous wares displayed in a bay-window 
with small panes, and with a door divided 
across the middle, the upper part of which was 
open. As he pushed open the lower part, a 
sharp little bell tinkled loudly, and in an instant 
an elderly woman appeared in the doorway of 
an inner room. 

“ I’m coming in, Mrs. Linnett,” he said. 

The small kitchen beyond the shop was 
scantily furnished with an arm-chair cushioned 
with home-made patchwork, two Windsor 
chairs, a table, and a kitchen-piece, combining 
a chest of drawers with a cupboard. But the 
walls were decorated with many cheap foreign 
curiosities ; and over the fireplace hung a highly 
colored engraving of a three-master, all sails 
full set, and four little black figures, represent- 
ing the crew, standing at equal distances along 


1 66 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

tiie bulwarks. A burning mountain in the dis- 
tance, in a terrific state of eruption, and the 
intense blue of the sea and sky, suggested the 
Bay of Naples. Underneath were the words, 
Barque ‘Jemima;* master, Thomas Linnett.** 

There was no light in the little kitchen, 
except that of the fire ; but there was enough 
to show the placid and pleasant face of Mrs. 
Linnett, though it was partially concealed by 
a green shade over her eyes. John Dudley 
smiled as he looked at her. 

“I think I’ve found you a little maid,” he 
said, “and a lodger, if I pay a small portion of 
his rent. He’s an honest old fellow, or I’m 
much mistaken ; and he gets his living by sell- 
ing water-cresses.” 

“It’s a poor trade,” remarked Mrs. Linnett 
tranquilly. 

“ He’s as poor as a man can be, and keep off 
the parish,” continued Mi. Dudley; “and he 
has a daughter very sickly, who will grow well 
and happy with a little mothering such as yon 
will give to her. And there’s a strong, bright 
girl, whom they have adopted, end who is the 
little maid I spoke of.” 


MRS. LINNETT’s lodgings. 


167 


" Three of ’em ! ” said Mrs. Linnett. 

“You like to have plenty of folks about you,” 
he answered persuasively; “and by and by the 
elder girl will help you to keep shop, and Bess 
will clean and scrub, and you will be at leisure 
to be my Bible-woman. You shall teach sick 
and miserable people what you know about God 
and our Lord Jesus Christ.” 

“And them three, — do they know?” in- 
quired Mrs. Linnett. 

“ They know nothing,” he said. “ None of 
them can read, and the old man has only one 
idea in his head, — how he can keep off the 
parish, and bury his children and himself in 
coffins of their own. Try them, Mrs. Linnett. 
Old Euclid goes to the market every morning, 
and Bess might still go with him, and bring 
back a basketful of fruit or vegetables for the 
shop fresh every day. Only promise me to try 
them.” 

“You were pretty sure o’ that afore you 
came in, Mr. Dudley,” she answered, with a 
quiet laugh. “I couldn’t say *no’ to you, as 
befriended me when Thomas Linnett died 
away at sea. Where would my twenty pounds 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


I68 

a year ha‘ been but for you ? There's the 
front room upstairs, and a closet as’ll dc for 
the old man to sleep in, and Bess’ll sleep with 
me. I’ve kep’ them for old shipmates o* 
Thomas Linnett’s ; but they’ll find lodgings 
close by, and my heart goes after those two 
young lasses as have every thing to learn. 
They’ll fill up my spare time when trade’s 
slack.” 

“How often is trade slack?” asked Mr. 
Dudley. 

“Not as often as you’d think, sir,” she said 
cheerfully. “ Bein’ so handy to the docks, 
there’s always some old mate or other droppin’ 
in as knew Thomas Linnett. They step in 
here, or, if it’s fine, they sit on the counter, and 
we talk of old times on ‘The Jemima;’ and 
most of ’em ’ud spend more money in the shop 
than I let ’em. Some of ’em leave their money 
with me for safety, and I’ve six or seven sea- 
chests in my room to be took care of. So 
there’s not so much slack time for me as ycu’d 
suppose.” 

Old Euclid visited the new lodgings proposed 
to him the next day; for there was no time to 


MRS. LIl nett’s lodgings. 


169 


be lost. Some caution was necessary in mak 
ing the move, so as to leave no clew by which 
Blackett could trace them. To make sure of 
perfect security, the old bedsteads once belong- 
ing to Mrs. Fell were privately disposed of, as 
well as the broken chair and empty boxes. 
The rest of their possessions were packed up, 
and stealthily conveyed downstairs at fou * 
o’clock in the morning, Euclid’s usual hour fol 
being about; and a hand-truck, sent by John 
Dudley, quietly carried them off. Later in the 
morning, Victoria, pale and trembling, de- 
scended the familiar staircase for the last time, 
and, clinging to Bess, passed Blackett’s open 
door. He scowled at them as they went by, 
and muttered an oath ; but he did not rise up 
to follow them. When they had safely gained 
the corner of the street, a cab took them up, 
and set them down at Mrs. Linnett’s door. 

One of the many old shipmates who had 
sailed in “ The Jemima ” with Thomas Linnett 
had papered the front room with a cheerfui 
paper of red roses, and had festooned the win- 
dow with strings of some foreign beans of a 
bright scarlet. The old egg-shaped grate, with 


I/O 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


high hobs, had been polished till it glittered in 
the firelight. Victoria' s bed stood in the cor- 
ner, ready made ; and Euclid’s was also ready 
in a little closet opening at the top of the 
narrow stairs. Over the chimney-piece hung 
an oval looking-glass, cracked across the 
middle, which had once belonged to some ship’s 
cabin, and had found its way into Mrs. Lin- 
nett’s possession ; and on each side of it was a 
picture in a black frame. Victoria stood on 
the threshold of this sumptuous dwelling-place, 
gazing at it with wondering eyes, till she sud- 
denly broke down into tears. 

** Oh, it’s too grand ! ” she sobbed. “ We 
can never pay the rent here.” 

*‘To be sure you can,” said Mrs. Linnett, 
soothing her tenderly. ** And by and by you’ll 
more than pay the rent, my dear, when you 
are strong enough to help me in the shop ; and 
that won’t be long, my poor precious ! There’s 
the fresh breeze blowing off the river: that’ll 
make you strong. And there’s me to look after 
you, poor dear, that never knew what it is to 
have a mother I And father’ll be as happy as 
a king to see you picking up your roses. And 


MRS. rjNNETX’s LODGINGS. I /I 

there’s Bess — why, she’ll be as good as a 
fortune to me, I know : she’ll save my old legs 
and arms so. And it’s a mile nigher to the 
market ; and Bess shall go and buy me apples 
and oranges and green-grocery for the shop; 
and we’ll sell all the cresses as Mr. Euclid 
brings home of an evening. And you’ll sec 
if he doesn’t more than pay the rent ! 


172 


IN PRISON AND OUT, ' 


CHAPTER XV. 

AN HOUR TOO SOON. 

I T was a constant marvel to Eucl.d how 
Victoria grew stronger and brighter. Pres- 
ently her pallid cheeks gained a faint tinge of 
red, and looked fuller and rounder; her eyes 
were happier, and her step less languid. She 
had no long, solitary hours now. Even when 
she was alone in her room, she could call Mrs. 
Linnett or Bess to her at any moment. Un- 
known to Euclid, Mr. Dudley provided more 
nourishing food for her than she had ever had 
in her life; and she was thriving upon it, as 
well as upon Mrs. Linnett's motherly care. It 
was like a new life to Victoria. 

She learned to read and write with astonish- 
ing rapidity, leaving Bess far behind, and filling 
Euclid’s old heart with fatherly pride in her 


AN HOUR TOO SOON. 


m 


He could not keep himself from boasting of 
his daughter’s learning to the saleswomen from 
whom he bought his cresses. His purchases in 
the market were of more importance now, as he 
had to keep the shop supplied with fresh fruit 
and vegetables ; and, as Mrs. Linnett reckoned 
his services .as worth a shilling a week to her, 
he felt well paid for his trouble. ** The winter’s 
woe was past ” in very truth. He had lost his 
hoarded savings, and would never get them 
back ; but what were they to Victoria’s return- 
ing health, and the sight of her dear face as it 
greeted him evening after evening, looking out 
for him to come home, over the lower half of 
Mrs. Linnett’s shop-door ? 

The only sorrow that sat by their fireside 
was the thought of David in prison. Bess was 
always talking of him, and of the day when he 
would be discharged. They counted the days 
till that would come. Old Euclid knew it as 
well as Bess; and Mr. Dudley pondered over 
the matter as much as they did. What was to 
be done with David when he came out of 
prison? How could the grievous wrong that 
had been done to him be set right ? Could it 
ever be set right in this world ? 


174 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


‘‘Davy'll be out next week,” said Bess ont 
evening, when they were all gathered round 
Mrs. Linnett’s fire. Bess was sorely troubled. 
She could never forsake David : that was im- 
possible. But would Euclid and Victoria and 
Mrs. Linnett be willing to let her go away with 
him in his disgrace, and lose sight of her for- 
evermore.^ She knew too well into what a 
gulf of misery and degradation she must fall 
with David, and a strange horror crept over her 
as she thought of it ; but none the less was she 
ready to go away with him from this pleasant 
and sure shelter, rather than be guilty of de- 
serting him in his dire distress. No, never 
could she forsake Davy ! 

“There’s a verse you read last night, Mrs. 
Linnett,” said old Euclid, “as has been runnin’ 
in my head all day. I’ve not got the words 
quite true, I know, ma’am ; but it’s snmethink 
like this : ‘ God doesn’t want one o’ these little 
young ones to be lost.* Somethink o’ that sort 
it is.” 

“ Ay, I know,” answered Mrs. Linnet. “ ‘ Ii 
is not the will of your Father in heaven that 
one a' these little ones should perish Jesus 
Christ said it : it’s his words.” 


AN HOUR TOO SOON. 1/5 

** It's like him,” said Euclid, with a smile on 
his gray face. “ It seems as if he was always 
a-sayin' somethink beautiful. And just afore 
that there was somethink about a sheep going 
astray, and gettin’ lost on the mountains, and 
how he'd rejoice over it when it was found 
again ; and then he says it's the same with the 
little ones : they shan't perish either. Poor 
Davy! he's gone astray; and he's no more 
than a young lamb as doesn’t know the right 
way. What are we to do to set him right 
again, so as he should’nt perish ? If it’s God's 
will, it must be done, I reckon.” 

“Where should Davy go but here?” asked 
Mrs. Linnett, in a hearty, cheery voice, which 
made the downcast heart of poor Bess leap for 
joy. “ If you and he 'ud sleep together in my 
bed, Bess shall have the closet, and I’ll sleep 
with Victoria. We shall shake down somehow. 
And Capt. Upjohn, my old shipmate, says he’ll 
take him with him to Sweden ; and they’ll be 
away six weeks or more, and his hair’ll be 
grown, and he’ll look all right when he gets 
back. Maybe he’ll take to a seafaring life, and 
then he’ll get on well, I know.” 


IN PRISON i^ND OUT. 


176 


“ Oh, if mother only knew ! ” cried Bess 
The day before David’s release from jail was 
a great day in Mrs. Linnett’s little house. 
Bess scrubbed every floor, and rubbed every 
article of furniture, as if they could not be 
bright enough to give David a welcome. All 
the while she was thinking of the many things 
she would have to tell him, — of Roger’s theft, 
and Blackett’s hatred ; and of Mr. Dudley and 
Mrs. Linnett, and this new happy home in 
which she found herself. Mrs. Linnett, who 
dearly loved a little festival, was making won- 
derful preparations for a dinner far beyond a 
common meal to-morrow; and Victoria was 
helping her to wash currants and stone raisins 
for a pudding. None of them spoke much of 
the coming event, though their hearts were full 
of it ; for, lying beneath the gladness, there ran 
a strong under-current of grief for the past, 
and of vague dread of the future. 

wish Jesus Christ was only here now!” 
cried Bess, flinging her arms round Mrs. Lin- 
nett’s neck, and sobbing on her shoulder. “ I’d 
go and tell him every word about Davy, and 
ask him if he thought him bad enough to be 


AN HOUR TOO SOON. 


177 


sent to jail. If he was livin’ anywhere in Lon 
don, I’d crawl to him on my hands and knees, 
if I couldn’t walk, and tell him all about it.” 

*'He knows all about it, Bess,” answered 
Mrs. Linnett, ‘‘ and he’ll make it up to him in 
some way. Only I wonder, I do wonder, as 
Christian folks can let it be 1 If the Queen ’ud 
only think about it, or the grand Lords and the 
Commons, as the newspapers speak about, 
they’d never let it be, I know. They’d find 
some other way to punish children. But we’ll 
try and make Davy forget it when he comes 
home.” 

Mr. Dudley had found out the usual hour 
for the discharge of prisoners, and it was 
settled that Euclid and Bess should be waiting 
for him when the outer door of the jail was 
opened. Bess was awake long before it was 
time to get up in the morning. It was an 
April day, six full calendar months since David 
had left home in the autumn to go begging for 
his mother. Euclid had time to make his cany 
round, and sell his cresses for the working- 
men’s breakfasts ; and he had resolved to make 
the rest of the day a holiday. Bess met him as 


178 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


he had just finished his sales, and then they 
turned their steps in the direction of the city 
prison. They were both happier and gayer 
than they had been since David went away; 
but Bess was especially glad. For, after all, 
in spite of the sorrow which cast so deep a 
shadow over her life, still David was coming 
back to her, and he was her own. He belonged 
to her, and she belonged to him. And Davy 
had always been so good to her. 

They reached the prison a few minutes before 
the appointed hour, and paced up and down 
under its gloomy walls, blackened with dust 
and smoke, and towering high above the bent 
old man and half-grown girl who trod half- 
timidly under their shadow. The heavy gates 
were shut close, and no sound was to be heard 
beyond them. The porter’s closely barred win- 
dow and thick door seemed to forbid them to 
knock there and make any inquiry; but they 
had none to make. 

They continued to pace to and fro patiently, 
with the meek and quiet patience of most of 
the honest and decent poor, not expecting any 
notice to be taken of them, or wishing to give 


AN HOUR TOO SOON. 


I7Q 

any trouble To and fro, to and fro, until the 
nearest church-clock, and the jail-clock within 
the walls, struck an hour behind the time, and 
still the prisoners were not set free. Again 
the weary footsteps trod beneath the gloomy 
shadows, and both Euclid and Bess fell into an 
almost unbroken and anxious silence. How 
was it that David was still kept in prison ? 

At length the door of the porter’s lodge was 
opened; and a warder came out, having it 
instantly and jealously closed after him. Old 
Euclid summoned courage enough to address 
him. 

** Sir,” he said respectfully, ‘‘ is there any 
thing gone wrong inside the jail ? ” 

“ Why do you want to know ? ” inquired the 
warder, with a sharp glance at them both. 
** What are you hanging about here for .? ” 

** We are waiting for this lassie’s brother, — 
David Fell,” he answered; whilst Bess gazed 
up eagerly, yet timidly, into the warder’s face. 
** His time’s up to-day, and we’ve been looking 
out for him to take him home with us.” 

‘‘Why, the prisoners have been gone this 
twc hours,” replied the warder. “ We let them 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


i8o 

out an hour earlier than usual ; for we\e some 
great visitors coming to see the jail, and we 
wanted to get on with business. They didn’t 
make any objections, not one of ’em, I can tell 
you. You make haste home, and you’ll find 
him there.” 

But Euclid and Bess knew that they could 
not find David at Mrs. Linnett’s, and they 
retraced their homeward path sadly and heavily. 
If he had thought of going to any home, it 
must be to that old, unhappy place, where his 
mother had died the day after his second con- 
viction; and thither neither Euclid nor Bess 
dared go, for fear of Blackett. It was six 
weeks since they had secretly quitted it, and 
not a soul among their old neighbors knew 
where they had found a new roof to shelter 
them. They had trusted no one with that 
precious secret. 

Yet Bess could not bear the thought of losing 
David. They must not lose him. Alas ! they 
guessed too well where he must be. But how 
could they get to him, and let him know what 
friends and what a home were waiting to wel- 
come him ? 


AN HOUR TOO SOON. l8l 

The feast was ready by the time they reached 
home; but none of them had a heart for it 
Mrs. Linnett, however, took a cheerful view of 
the misfortune, and assured them Mr. Dudley 
would know how to find David without bringing 
any danger to Euclid. Mr. Dudley looked in 
during the evening, and, upon hearing the news, 
started off at once in search of David. He 
was almost as anxious to find the lad, and take 
him home, as Bess herseK could have been. 

David had been at the old house : that was 
quickly and easily learned. He had knocked at 
two doors, and been driven away from them 
both as a thief and a jail-bird; but nobody 
could tell where he had gone to. At last Mr. 
Dudley made an inquiry at Blackett’s own 
door ; but all he could learn was, that Blackett 
himself had left his old lodgings for good that 
very day, and had taken care not to leave hia 
address. 


i 82 


IN PJlISON and out. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


TWICE IN JAIL. 


OR t^ie second time — or, as ne prison 



X report registered it, for the tl rd time — 
David Fell had been committed to jail for three 
months. David knew the prison report was 
wrong. More than this, he did rot feel that 
his first offence had deserved io severe a 
penalty. Now, when he had bi'Cn defending 
his mother’s good name, and seeking the resto- 
ration of her property, his whole boyish nature 
rose rebelliously under a sense of cruel in- 
justice. 

He would do it again, he cried within him- 
self ; yes, if all the magistrates and policemen 
in the whole world were looking on. Why 
should b is mother be cheated out of the only 
treasure she possessed.? and how could he 


TWICE IN JAIL. 


183 


stand by, and hear her called what Mr. Quirk 
had called her ? His mother was as good as 
any woman in London, and he was ready to 
fight anybody who gave her an ill name. 

He was but a boy still. In many homes he 
would have been reckoned among the children, 
and his faults of temper would have been 
passed over, or leniently dealt with. He was in 
jail for a brave, rash action, which most men 
would have applauded jn their own sons. Each 
time the trial that consigned him to an im- 
prisonment of three months had not occupied 
.•nore than five minutes. ' Police-courts are busy 
places, with a constant pressure of affairs to be 
despatched ; and a police-magistrate has not 
time to investigate the statements of boys who, 
nine times out of ten, are telling a lie in order 
to escape punishment. David had been caught 
red-handed in his transgression of the law ; and 
the law, framed as it had been against wrong- 
doers, swept him, in its resistless current, into 
jail. 

The prison was not the one from which he 
Iiad just beer/ released; but there was a mourn 
ful sameness to it. He did not feel like a 


1 84 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

stranger there. He had had one night free, — 
a night and a day with his dying mother ; and 
now three more months stretched before him. 
But this time he was sullen and moody, brood- 
ing over his injuries. There was no longer the 
hope to sustain him of learning a trade, by 
which he could maintain his mother and Bess. 
He felt sure his mother would be dead before 
this second term 'was over, and it would be best 
for little Bess to have nothing to do with a 
brother who had been twice in jail. 

David became insolent and refractory. What 
did it matter if they put him into the black 
hole, where no single ray of light could enter ? 
The darkness could not affright him ; or, if it 
did, he would harden himself against it, as he 
hardened himself against every punishment or 
expostulation. He was honest and truthful ; 
yet he was branded a thief and a liar. He was 
intensely ignorant; yet he was punished foi 
actions which would have been applauded in a 
genthiman's son. He could not put his wretch 
edness into words : you might as well ask of 
him to paint on canvas a picture of his prison- 
cell. His tongue was dumb ; but his memory 


TWICE IN JAIL. 


85 


and the passion of his heart were never silent 
They weie for ever muttering to him in under- 
tones of revenge and hatred and defiance. 

David completed his fourteenth year in jail. 
The heavy-browed, sullen-faced boy, who was 
discharged from his second imprisonment in 
April, could hardly have been recognized as 
the lad who had gone out, ashamed though 
resolute, to beg for help the preceding October. 
He slouched along the sunny streets, under the 
blue sky, bright with glistening spring clouds; 
but he paid no heed to sunshine or cloud. In. 
old times there had been the changes of the 
seasons even for him and little Bess in their 
squalid street ; but they had no more power over 
his sullen moods. He sauntered on, not home- 
wards (he knew too well there could be no 
home for him), but towards the old familiar 
place, — the only spot he knew well on earth, 
where, at least, he would find faces not alto- 
gether strange to him, if they were not the 
faces of friends, and where alone he could 
Jearn any tidings of Bess. But he did not 
lurry : there was no mf ther now to be hungry 
for r sight of him. 


1 86 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

Still, when he reached the house, he went 
straight to the old door, and knocked. A stran- 
ger opened it, and looked suspiciously at him. 
There was no Mrs. Fell there. She had never 
heard of such a person. She had only come 
into the house three weeks ago, and she was 
too busy getting her own living to go gossiping 
among the neighbors. She slammed the door 
to in his face, and he heard her draw the bolt 
on the inside. He had not caught even a 
glimpse of the poor, dark room, which had once 
•been his home. 

ril go upstairs, and ask Victoria,” said 
David to himself. 

He mounted the stairs slowly and quietly, — 
not with the buoyant step of an active and rest- 
less lad, but with the hesitating, listless tread 
of a culprit. He was ashamed of facing either 
Euclid or Victoria, and he was almost afraid 
that their door would be shut in his face. But 
when he reached the foot of the last staircase, 
leading only to their garret, he saw the door 
open, and he mounted more quickly. 

Yes, the door was open, — propped open with 
a brick, to prevent i : from banging to and fro 


TWICE IN JAIL. 


1 8; 

on its hinges ; but the garret was quite empty. 
There was no trace left of its former tenants, 
ex:ept the pictures which Victoria had pasted 
over the fireplace. All was gone, — the broken 
chair, the corner cupboard, the poor flock-bed 
from the floor, the black kettle, and little brown 
teapot : there was nothing left. David sat 
down in the corner where Victoria’s bed had 
been, and hid his face in his hands. If there 
had been a faint hope left in his heart of find- 
ing friends and a refuge here, the glimmer of 
it died away into utter darkness. He was 
absolutely alone in the world which had been 
so cruel to him. 

It is possible that he fell asleep for very 
sorrow ; but after a long while, as the dusk of 
evening was creeping on, he roused himself, 
and slowly descended the stairs. On the sec 
ond floor he tapped with a trembling hand on 
a closed door, and quietly lifted the latch. He 
knew the workman who lived there with his 
wife and children. They were sitting at sup- 
per ; and the man, calling out, “Who’s there ? ” 
looked up, as David put his pale face round the 
door. 


1 88 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

** I’m looking for my moLher ! ” he said, in a 
fait ering voice. 

‘‘Your mother!” repeated the man, rising 
angrily. “ I know what you want, you jail- 
bird I Get out o’ this at once, you skulking 
thief ! ” 

But David did not wait for him to reach the 
door. He closed it hastily, and ran downstairs 
to escape if he was pursued. As he was pass- 
ing into the street, he heard his name called 
through Blackett’s open door. He stopped 
instantaneously, catching at a straw of hope. 
Perhaps Roger could tell him what had become 
of Bess. 

“Come in, David Fell,” called the voice of 
Blackett himself, “ come in I Now you’re tarred 
with the same stick as my lads, you needn’t 
stand off from me no more. You and me’ll be 
as thick as thieves now. Come in, my lad,” he 
added in as kindly a tone as he could assume. 

I’m right sorry for thee, and I’ve news for 
thee.” 

For a moment David hesitated, remembering 
his mother’s dread of her neighbor ; but Black- 
ett came to the door, and dragged him in, in no 
way roughly. 


TWICE IN JAIL. 189 

‘‘You\ 3 come to look after your poor 
mother ? ” he said gravely. 

David nodded. 

“ She’s dead, — died the very night after you 
was booked for another three months,” said 
Blackett 

David did not speak. No change passed 
over his hard and sullen face. He had known 
it all the while in the dreary solitude of his 
prison-cell. He would never see his mother’s 
face again, — never! Yet, as he stood there 
opposite to Blackett, he felt as if he could see 
he£ lying in the room beyond on the sacking 
of her comfortless bed, with her white face and 
hungry eyes turned towards the door, watching 
for him to come in. 

‘‘And Bess is gone away — nobody knows 
where,” continued Blackett, eyeing the boy 
with a keen, sinister gaze, ‘‘on the streets 
somewhere. There’s not much chance for 
Bess, neither.” 

David flinched and shivered. Should he 
e’ 'er see little Bess again } Never again as he 
had been used to see her. He could recollect 
all his life through having her given into his 


1 90 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

care and keeping, — a younger, smaller, feebler 
creature, dependent upon him. He had played 
with her, and fought for her. They had eaten 
and been hungry together, and had had every 
event of their lives in common, until he was 
sent to jail. Was little Bess likely to be sent 
to jail too } Girls as young as Bess were sent 
to prison ; and the chances were all against her 
keeping out of it. 

Queen Victoria and my Lord Euclid are 
gone,” went on Blackett, with a sneer. ** They 
made a moonlight flit of it, and they hadn’t 
the manners to leave their address behind ’em 
They carried all their fortune with them.” 

Still David did not speak, but stood looking 
into Blackett’s face, with a forlorn and listless 
strangeness, which touched even him with its 
utter loss of hope. 

“Come, come, my lad! never say die!” he 
exclaimed. “Take a drop out o’ my glass here, 
and pluck up your spirits. Take a good pull 
at it, David. You haven’t asked after Roger. 
He’s in better luck than you. He cribbed a 
parcel of money from under Victoria’s ])illow, 
and my Lord Euclid had him took up for it 


TWICE IN JAIL. 


I9I 

I was always in hopes of gettin’ him off my 
hands, the poor hang-dog! But he had grand 
luck. Old Euclid sets to and pleads for him 
tc the justice; and they found out as it was a 
sin and a shame to send a lad like him to jail, 
— a lad o* fourteen! And they’ve sent him to 
school! — to school, David, where he’s quite the 
gentleman ! ” 

But here David broke into a loud and very 
bitter cry. Why had they not done the same 
with him ? Oh ! why had they committed him 
to jail, and sent Roger to school? He hid his 
face in his hands, and hot tears of anger and 
despair rolled down his cheeks. 

** They’ve made an order on me for half 
a crown a week,” continued Blackett, after a 
pause. ^^I’ve paid it six weeks, and now I’m 
giving 'em the slip. I’m a-going to cross the 
river into Surrey to-night ; and, if you’ll come 
along with me. I’ll say you are my son, and I’ll 
pay your lodgin’ to-night. An old neighbor’s 
son sha'n’t sleep in the streets. Come, David ! 
You haven’t got another friend in this place; 
and I don’t ask you to be a thief- You shall 
get your livin’ quite honest, if you can. You’re 


192 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


not a lazy hound like Roger, or Fd have 
nought to say to you. But you’ll always be 
worth your bread and cheese, if you can get 
work. Come, and we’ll get supper at the 
tavern afore we start.” 

** I’ll come,” said David. At the word ** sup- 
per” he felt how hungry he was; and he re- 
membered that he was penniless. Blackett had 
already disposed of his few possessions to the 
tenant who had taken his room : so there was 
nothing now to be done but to pick up his 
bundle of clothes, and his glazier’s tools, and, 
as it was already night, to take his departure 
across the river, where he was as yet unknown 
by sight to the police. David Fell followed 
him as his only friend 


MEETING AND PARTING. 


193 


CHAPTER XVIL 

MEETING AND PARTING. 

B lackett was as good as his wold. 

He did not in any way interfere with 
David’s efforts to obtain work by which he 
could live honestly. He counted surely upon 
what the result would be ; and, when he saw 
David start off morning after morning on his 
fruitless search, he would thrust his tongue into 
his cheek, and chuckle scornfully, causing the 
lad’s heavy heart to sink yet lower. But no 
one else was kind to him ; and, though he had 
a lurking dread and distrust of Blackett, there 
was no one else to give him a morsel of food. 
Blackett gave him both food and shelter, and 
of an evening he took him with him to the 
haunts of men like himself ; and amongst them 
David perfected the lessons he had begun to 
learn in jail 


194 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


The brave spirit of the boy was broken ; his 
powers of endurance were gone. He could no 
longer bear the gnawings of hunger and the 
cravings of thirst, as be had done as long as be 
could hold up his head before any one of his 
fellow-men. He felt compelled to slink away 
from the eye of a policeman, fancying that all 
the force knew him. And he had indeed the 
indelible brand of the prison-house upon him. 
He had a sullen, hang-dog expression ; a skulk- 
ing, cowardly gait ; an alarmed eye, and restless 
glance, looking out for objects of dread. Wlien 
he was hungry, — and how often tliat was!^ 
he no longer hesitated to snatch a slice of fish 
or a bunch of carrots from a street-stall, if he 
had a good chance of escape. To march whis- 
tling along the streets, with his head well up 
and his step free, was a thing altogether of the 
past now. 

He made no effort to find Bess. If there 
had been any faint, forlorn hope in his heart, 
when he left jail, of still doing something bettei 
than drifting back into it, it had died away 
entirely before he had been a fortnight with 
Blackett The courage he had once had was 


MEETING AND PARTING. I95 

transformed into a reckless defiance of the 
laws and the society that had dealt so cruelly 
with him. What did he owe to society } Why 
should he keep its laws ? He soon learned to 
say that his consent had not been asked when 
they were made ; and why should he be bound 
by them ? A rich man’s son had all his heart 
could desire, and might break many of the laws 
of the land, because he could afford to pay a 
fine for it ; whilst he, David Fell, left by society 
to live in degradation and forced idleness, was 
hurried off to prison for innocent offences such 
as his had been. A strong sense of injury and 
injustice smouldered in his boyish heart. 

Summer came and went ; and a second win- 
ter dragged down the poor again to their yearly 
depths of suffering and privation. David was 
in jail once more, this time for theft, at which 
he laughed. Prison was a comfortable shelter 
from the cold and hunger of the dreary mid- 
winter; and, if he had only luck enough to 
keep out of it in the summer, it was not bad 
for winter quarters. He learned more lessons 
in shoemaking, by which he could not get an 
honest living outside the jail-walls among hon 


196 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


est folk. The time for that was past. He did 
not try to find work when he was free again. 
Henceforth the worK David’s hands would find 
to do was what God’s law as well as man’s law, 
and Christ as well as the world, call crime. But 
whose fault was it ? 

Nearly a year and a half had passed since 
Euclid and Victoria and Bess had found a home 
with Mrs. Linnett; and, though Mr. Dudley 
had done all in his power to discover David, 
every effort had failed. One July evening Bess 
was crossing London Bridge. The light from 
the setting sun shone upon the river, which was 
rippling in calm, quiet lines, with the peaceful 
flowing-in of the tide. Bess stood still for a 
few minutes, gazing westward to the golden 
sky. She was a prettier girl than even her 
own mother had thought sadly of her becoming ; 
but this evening her face was brighter than 
usual. Her eyes sparkled, and her lips half 
parted with a smile, as her thoughts dwelt on 
some pleasant subject apart from the beauty of 
the sunset. She took no notice of the loungers 
on each side of her, who, like herself, were 
leaning over the parapet of the oridge, and 


MEETING AND PARTING. 


197 


gazing down on the river. But, as she roused 
herself from her pleasant girlish revery, and 
turned away to go on homewards, a hand was 
laid on her arm, and a voice beside her said in 
a low tone, ‘‘ Bess I ” 

She started, in a tremor of hope and glad- 
ness. It was David’s voice, — his whom she had 
sought for in vain ever since she had lost him ! 
But, as she looked at him, with her parted lips 
and shining eyes, a change crept over her face. 
Could this scampish, vile, and ill-looking lad be 
David.? Yet, as she gazed at him, a chi.rige 
passed over his face also. His hard, svllen 
mouth softened ; and, behind the reddened and 
bleared eyes, there dawned something of the 
old tender light of the love he had borne for 
her when she was his little Bess. 

** Davy ! ” she cried. 

Ay ! ” he said. 

Then there was a silence. What could they 
say to one another.? There seemed a great 
gulf between them. They stood side by side, 
— the one, simple and innocent and good ; the 
other, foul and vicious and guilty. How' fai 
apart they felt themselves to be ! 


198 


IN PRISON AND OUT, 


Davy,” said Bess at last, though falteringly, 
‘‘you must come home with me.” 

“No,” he answered sorrowfully, “I’ll never 
spoil your life, little Bess. You’re all right, I 
see. You’ve not gone wrong, and I’ll never 
come across you. I’m very glad I’ve seen you 
once again ; but I didn’t try. Bess, I’d ha’ been 
very proud of you if things had happened dif- 
ferent.” 

“ Where do you live now ? ” asked Bess, 
letting her hand fall upon his greasy sleeve 
for a moment, but as quickly removing it, with 
a girlish disgust. 

“ I live off and on with Blackett,” he an- 
swered. “I’ve got no other friend in the 
world ; and sometimes he’s good enough, and 
sometimes he’s ’ragious. Bess,” and he low- 
ered his voice again to a whisper, “I were in 
jail again last winter ! ” 

“ O Davy ! Davy ! ” she moaned. 

“Ay!” he went on. “It’s the only home 
I’ve got, except the workhouse ; and jail’s the 
best. So I must keep away from you, or I’d do 
you harm. Don’t you tell me where you live, 
or I’d be a-comin’ to look at you sometimes; 


MEETING AND PARTING. 1 99 

and it *ud do you harm, little Bess, and do :nc 
no good.*' 

“ Oh ! if Mr. Dudley *ud only come by ! ” 
Bess cried. 

“ Who’s Mr. Dudley } ” asked David. 

“He’d find you somewhere to go to, and 
honest work to do,” she answered. “I know 
he would ; and you’d grow up into a good man 
yet, like father.” 

“A good man like father!” he repeated. 
No, I couldn’t now : I’ve grown to like it. I like 
drink and games, and things as they call 
wickedness. I can’t never be any think but a 
thief. There’s good folks like you and mother 
and father ; but I’ve been drove among wicked 
folks like Blackett, and I can never be like you 
no more. Mother was a good woman ; and 
what did she come to ? Why, she died o’ clem- 
ming: Blackett’s alway a-sayin’ so, and he’s 
right there. But she couldn’t keep me out o* 
jail ; and I belong to bad folks now.” 

“ O Davy 1 Davy ! ” wailed Bess. 

“ Good-by, little Bess ! ” he said very mourn- 
fully. “ I don’t want ever to see you again. If 
Blackett was to see you now! No, no, Bess! 


200 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


you and me are parted forevermore. If there’? 
a hell, I’m goin’ to it ; and, if there’s a heaven, 
you’re goin’ to it ! So good-by, Bess ! ” 

‘‘Oh! why doesn’t Mr. Dudley come by.^’ 
cried Bess again, not knowing what to do. For, 
if David was living with Blackett, she must hide 
from him where Euclid and Victoria had found 
shelter from their old enemy. How could she 
take David home, or even tell him where it was, 
if that would bring danger to them ? 

“Why did they send me to jail, and send 
Roger to school ? ” said David with bitterness. 
“ It isn’t fair. He’d stole money, and I’d only 
been a beggin’ for mother. They didn’t give 
me no chance; and Roger’ll get taught every 
think. Nobody can help me now. I’m not 
sixteen yet, and I’ve been three times in jail ; 
and nobody ever taught me how to get a livin’ 
till I went to jail. And what’s the use o’ learn- 
in’ any trade m jailf Nobody’ll take you on 
when they know where you’ve been. Father 
was a good man, and he’d not ha’ been willin 
to work side by side with a jail-bird. It stands 
to reason, Bess. So I can never get free from 
bad folks, — never again.” 


MEETING AND PARTING. 


201 


What must I do ? ” cried Bess, weeping, and 
pressing his arm between both her hands. “ O 
Davy I I can’t let you go ; but I mustn’t take 
you home with me. What am I to do ^ ” 

‘‘Well! only kiss me once,” he answered, 
“just once, and let me go. You can’t do 
nothink for me : it’s too late ! I’m bad, and a 
thief now ; and all I’ve got afore me is jail, jail ! 
I wouldn’t like to spoil your life for you, little 
Bess. Don’t say where you live; don’t! It 
’ud be too hard for me some day, and I might 
come after you, and spoil your life. Don’t for- 
get Davy. Kiss me, Bess ! kiss me just once, 
and let me go ! ” 

She lifted up her pretty, girlish face to him 
with lowered eyelids and quivering mouth ; and 
he pressed his hot, feverish lips upon it. Then 
he suddenly wrenched his arm from her grasp, 
and, running very swiftly, was lost to her sight 
in a few moments amid the crowd always cross- 
ing London Bridge. 


202 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A RED-LETTER DAY. 

HY had not Mr. Dudley crossed Lon- 



V V don Bridge at the time when he was so 
sorely needed? He asked himself this ques- 
tion with a sharp sense of disappointment and 
defeat. It was his custom frequently of an 
evening to go there, and see the sunset on the 
river ; but this day he had felt too busy to go. 
Some trifling task, which could have been done 
at any other hour, had hindered him from attain- 
ing an end which he had kept steadily before 
him ever since he had heard David’s history. 

He had made every effort to trace David, 
but had utterly failed hitherto; but the story 
Bess told, with many tears, brought fresh hope 
to him. Bess had seen and spoken with him, 
and learned that he was living with Blackett 


A RED-LETTER DAY. 


203 


There would be less difficulty in tracking out 
Blackett, who had made himself notorious for 
many years, than in finding David, whose down- 
ward career of vice and crime was but lately 
begun. 

The next day was to be a great and memo- 
rable day in the lives of both Victoria and Bess. 
They had been thinking and dreaming of it for 
weeks. Mr. Dudley was going to take them 
down the river to the ship Cleopatra,” where 
Roger had been in training for a seaman during 
the last eighteen months. He had been a 
troublesome lad at first, cunning and idle, yet 
with a germ of good in him, which had turned 
towards David’s mother, and had fastened upon 
her honesty as a quality to be loved and imi- 
tated. There had been a careful, kindly, and 
sympathetic care taken of him by the officers 
on “The Cleopatra;” and both idleness and 
cunning had been conquered. To allow him to 
return to a land life in London would have been 
probably to doom him, like David Fell, to a 
course of guilt which must lead him to the 
workhouse or the jail. His life would be given 
to England in aiding to carry her commerce to 
foreign shores. 


204 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


The sunrise was as splendid as the sunset 
had been the night before. Euclid, as he 
started off to market, called to Victoria out of 
the street that it was the finest motning of 
all the year; and, long before the right time 
for starting, Bess and Victoria were down on 
London-bridge Pier waiting for Mr. Dudley's 
arrival. When he came, Bess pointed out to 
him the exact spot where she had met David 
last night, and a cloud shadowed her bright 
face for a few minutes ; but it passed away 
gradually as the vessel steamed off, and carried 
her out of sight of the bridge. 

A number of people on the steamer were 
bound for The Cleopatra ; " for it was the 
yearly fete day, and a real lord and lady were to 
be present to give away the prizes. They 
could see the ship, long before they reached it, 
standing out clearly against the deep blue of 
the summer sky, with banners and streamers 
flying from every mast and along every line of 
rigging. A boat, manned by ** Cleopatra ” 
boys, was waiting at the landing-stage to carry 
the visitors across to the ship, — sunburnt, 
healthy, bright-eyed lads in navy-blue, looking 


A RED-LETTER DAY. 


205 


already like real seamen. One of the biggest 
of them, as he saw Bess staring about her every 
way except in his direction, gave a gladsome 
little shout to call her eyes towards him. It 
was Roger. 

From that moment Bess seemed to see 
not!iing but Roger, so tall he had grown, so 
strong and bright. His face had lost its scared 
and sulky look, and smiled whenever he caught 
her gaze as he bent over his oar, and pulled 
away, with the other lads, to the ship’s side. 
Roger helped her up the ladder, and made her 
promise not to go anywhere till he had finished 
his turn of rowing to and fro to the landing- 
stage, and was ready to guide her over ‘'The 
Cleopatra” himself. She and Victoria stood 
looking over the gunwale at the gay little boats 
flitting about ; whilst the ship’s banners and 
streamers fluttered overhead, and a band of 
music, played by other boys, sounded joyously 
from the deck, as boat-load after boat-load of 
friends and visitors boarded the ship. Bess 
clasped Victoria’s hand very tightly, but she 
could not speak. 

Every steamer brought fresh guests, and the 


206 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


trips to the landing-stage were very numerous; 
but after a while Roger was at liberty to take 
Bess triumphantly over ** The Cleopatra/’ prid- 
ing himself on the knowledge he had of a 
hundred things, of which she knew nothing. 
Beneath the main-deck the yearly banquet was 
spread on long narrow tables, profusely deco- 
rated with flowers and fruit, and displaying 
more glass and china than Bess had ever 
dreamed of. But Roger did not linger there. 
There was the forecastle to be shown, and the 
cabins, and the schoolroom, and the boys’ 
sleeping-berths, where Roger hung up his ham- 
mock, and leaped into it, curled himself up in 
it, and leaped out of it, with an agility which 
amazed Bess. Above deck were the masts 
and the rigging and the shrouds and boats ; 
and Bess must be told the use of them, and 
see Roger climbing barefoot, as swiftly as a 
monkey, till he shouted her name at a giddy 
height above her, and, loosing his hands from 
the mast, held on by his feet only, to her great 
agony and dread. And the sun that day shone 
as Bess had never known it shine before, and 
the soft wdnds played about her face, bringing a 


A RED-LETTER DAY. 


207 


deeper color to her cheeks ; and, but for one 
heavy sorrow in her inmost heart, she would 
have been perfectly happy. 

Bess and Victor id and Roger had a pleasant 
little lunch of biscuit and cheese under a hatch- 
way by themselves while the banquet was going 
on below. After that was over, the prizes 
were to be given ; and^ behold ! Roger had won 
some of these prizes, and had to step forward 
before all the crowd of ^'uests and shipmates — 
very proud, yet very shamefaced — to receive 
them from the hands of the real lord! A 
hearty cheer rang in his ears as he returned to 
Bess to show her what he had won ; and she saw 
the tears in his eyes for an instant, though he 
wiped them away quickly, and cheered the next 
boy with all his might and strength. 

Then there came a number of exercises ; and 
“The Cleopatra” seemed all alive with brisk 
lads reefing and furling the sails, running races 
up the rigging to the mast-head, splicing and 
knotting ropes, drilling, and a variety of won- 
derful performances, in which Roger was dis- 
tinguishing himself, while Bess looked on as if 
she could gaze forever. Could this indeed be 


2o8 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


Roger, the dirty, slouching, miserable boy, who 
used to creep out of his father’s sight into her 
mother’s room ? Was he the frightened thief 
who had stolen Euclid’s hoard of money, and 
who had been saved from jail by Euclid’s 
earnest pleading? Or was she dreaming a 
splendid dream, which would fade away as soon 
as she awoke ? 

Victoria enjoyed this red-letter day to the full 
as much as Bess, though she sat still more, and 
looked most at the deep blue of the sky, and 
the sparkling of the swift river, and the green 
meadows sloping down to its margin. She had 
grown stronger; but she would always be a 
small and delicate woman, not fit for rough 
work. Mr. Dudley had been very busy from 
the moment he had set his foot on board ; but, 
when the exercises began, he came to sit down 
beside her for a little while, thinking to himself 
how serious, yet tranquil, her pale face was, and 
what a quiet smile dwelt in her eyes. 

** Any thing the matter, Victoria ? ” he asked. 

** I’m only thinking, sir,” she answered. ** I 
got used to thinkin* when father was away all 
day, and I was left alone, before you knew us.” 


A RED-LETTER DAY. 20g 

•^And what are you thinking of?” he in- 
quired. 

“Do it cost more to keep Roger here than 
to keep David in jail ? ” she asked, turning her 
serious face to him. 

“Jails cost more than training-ships,” he 
answered. 

“Roger*li know how to get his own livin',” 
she went on. “And he’ll marry a wife, and 
keep her and his children decent; and he’ll 
never cost anybody no more. But David ! I’m 
thinkin’ how he told Bess there’s no hope for 
him now. And, oh I he was so much better 
than Roger to start with. There was no more 
harm in him than in Bess then. She’d have 
turned out bad if you hadn’t found us out in 
time, — all through Roger stealing that money.” 

Victoria’s eyes filled with tears; and she 
turned her face half-way from Mr. Dudley, 
looking sorrowfully towards the sunny west, 
where the purple smoke of London hung in 
the sky. 

“ Did you ever read all through the Gospel of 
St. Luke, sir ? ” she asked. 

“To be sure, Victoria,” he replied. 


210 


Ilf PRISON AND OUT. 


“Then you’ve read how, when Jesus was 
come near London, he looked at it, and wept 
over it. ‘Wept’ means real crying, doesn’t it.^*' 
“Yes,” he answered. 

“Then Jesus cried over London,” she went 
on. “ That was real crying, I know. He only 
saw the city once, and then he wept over it. 
I’m thinkin’ of that.” 

“Ah! the city!'' he repeated. “Yes! ‘He 
beheld the city, and wept over it.’ Those are 
the words, Victoria } " 

“Yes,” she said. 

“It’s true of London,” he continued, — “as 
true as it ever was of any city in the world. 
And, after Jesus had wept over it, he said, ‘ li 
thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this 
thy day, the things which belong to thy peace ! 
but now they are hid from thine eyes.’ ” 

He stood up, and looked, as she was doing, 
westward, at the cloud of dim-colored purple 
hanging over the city, with the golden beams 
of the sun already tinging it with crimson 
light. He knew well — but knew also that not 
a hundredth part was known to him — what 
ui.told sorrows and sins lay underneath that 


A RED-LETTER DAY. 


2II 


cloud ; wLat ignorance and degradation and 
crime were stalking in visible forms along its 
streets. He thought of the jails and the work 
houses being enlarged from time to time for 
the upspringing and yet unborn generations of 
criminals and paupers, which would eat away 
its glory and its strength. And, from the very 
depths of his heart, he cried, “Would to God 
thou wouldst learn, in this thy day, the things 
that belong to thy peace ! ** 

They returned home in a steamer chartered 
for the purpose of conveying all the guests of 
“The Cleopatra.’* As they dropped away from 
the training-ship, they were followed by the 
sound of music. The boys clambered up into 
the shrouds, and stood along the gunwale and 
on every point where there was foothold, wav- 
ing their shining hats, and cheering vocifer- 
ously, as their guests departed. Bess never 
took her eyes from the ship, and from Roger 
standing amid his mates, as long as she could 
see them. It had been a wonderful day, a day 
to remember as long as she lived. But, oh ! if 
David had been there as well as Roger I 
Their first landing-place was London Bridge 


212 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


It was already growing dusk, and the lamps 
were lit ; and, as she looked up, she fancied she 
saw David’s sad, despairing face leaning over 
the parapet above, and gazing down upon her 
But, when she looked again, he was gone. 


victoria’s wedding. 


213 


CHAPTER XIX. 
victoria’s wedding. 

I T was months before Mr. Dudley could 
learn any thing of David; and then he 
discovered him in jail again for theft of a more 
serious character. He obtained permission to 
visit him, and had a long interview with him ; 
and left, promising to be his friend. When his 
term was up, Mr. Dudley found him lodgings, 
and did his best to find him work; but there 
was no remunerative work to be procured for 
him, and he was now utterly averse to hard 
labor with poor pay. It was more than three 
years since his first committal to prison; and 
he had learned one lesson so well there, that he 
was no longer willing to bear with starvation or 
excessive toil. He had nothing to lose by being 
a thief, except his liberty ; and his liberty was 


214 


IN PRISO-J AND OUT. 


equally forfeit if he gave himself to uninter 
mittent labor. His sole ambition now was to 
thieve so skilfully as to defy the vigilance of 
his enemies the police. 

There was at least one point of good left in 
him. He would not hear where Bess was 
living, and begged Mr. Dudley not to tell her 
of his lost condition. “Let me go down to 
hell alone,” he said. “I’m not afeard of it; 
but I don’t want to see little Bess there.” It 
was in vain that Mr. Dudley reasoned with him, 
and entreated him to try again. How could he 
try again ? Would any thing ever alter the 
shameful fact that he had been several times in 
jail.? or would any effort take away his name 
from the terrible list of habitual criminals kept 
by the police .? The name his father bore and 
his mother loved — David Fell — was inscribed 
there. 

“ This is a damned world,” he said ; and Mr. 
Dudley did not know what to answer. 

It was well for Bess that Mr. Dudley kept 
David’s secret, and said nothing to her of his 
failure \n trying to redeem him. Roger had 
entered the merchant-service, and was serving 


victoria's wedding. 


2IS 

before the mast in a sailing-vessel that went 
long voyages, and came into London docks but 
seldom. When he was on shore, his home 
was always at Mrs. Linnett’s, where old Euclid 
took a pride in him as being a lad saved from 
destruction through his mediation. Yet there 
was always a little dread mingled with his wel- 
come visits lest Blackett should come across 
his son, and so discover the shelter they had 
found from his hatred and revenge. 

It had become a standing joke at the market, 
and amongst Euclid’s oldest and familiar cus- 
tomers, that the old water-cress-seller must 
have come into a fortune, so changed was he. 
He looked as if the old bent in his shoulders 
was growing straighter, and his bowed-down 
head more erect. The linen blouse he had 
always worn as his outer garment was no 
longer ragged or dirty; and in the winter a 
warm, though threadbare, greatcoat took its 
place. He had become a very independent 
buyer, and most fastidious in his choice of 
cresses. No fear now that he must put up 
with any cresses gone yellow at the edges, or 
spotted on the bright-green leaf. He could 


2I6 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


pay for the best; and the saleswomen knew 
that he would have the best. He could afford 
to give more liberal and larger bunches; and 
his wrinkled face did not fall into abject dis- 
appointment if he was asked to give credit for 
a day or two. He was quite another being 
from the stooping, shuffling, poverty-stricken, 
decrepit old man, who had been wont to cry, 

** Cre-she ! cre-she ! ” in a hoarse and mournful 
voice along the streets. 

It was the home he and Victoria had found 
which difl it. There was a nourishing warmth 
in the sense of friendship and fellow-feeling 
which surrounded him there. Mrs. Linnett’s 
cheery ways, and Mr. Dudley’s kindly interest 
in them, made him feel that they were no longer 
alone in the battle of life. If he fell on the bat- 
tle-field, Victoria would not be trampled under 
foot in its fierce conflict. There was the same'- 
hard toil for him ; the chilly mornings of winter 
were no warmer : but the world appeared quite 
another place to him ; for his heart was no 
longer heavy, nor his spirit cast down. 

It had been strongly urged upon Roger by 
Mr. Dudley, and by his teachers on board 


victoria’s wedding. 


217 


‘*The Cleopatra,” that he must replace the 
mone) he had formerly stolen from Euclid. 
This purpose became a secret between him and 
Bess and Mrs. Linnett, who delighted in inno- 
cent surprises. When the sum was completed, 
on his return from his second voyage, he and 
Bess tied it up in an old handkerchief, and 
placed it under Victoria’s pillow, where her 
Testament was often laid now, that she might 
be reading it in the early light of the morning, 
as soon as Bess and her father began to stir. 
Victoria’s hand, groping for her little book, 
grasped the old, well-remembered parcel of hard 
money, and she screamed, “Father! father!” 
till Euclid appeared at the door, looking in with 
a terrified face. 

“ It’s the money for my coffin come again ! ” 
she cried, bursting into tears. 

“No, no!” said Bess, between laughing and 
crying : “ it’s the money as Roger stole, every 
penny of it, saved up to be given back to you, 
with his love ! O Roger ! tell them ! tell them 
all about it ! ” 

But Roger, who was standing behind Euclid 
at the door, could not utter a word. It felt to 


2i8 


IN PRISON a^ND out. 


him a happier time even than when he had 
received his prizes, in the presence of all his 
mates, from the hands of a real lord. Old 
Euclid’s face, bewildered and alarmed at first, 
changed into a joyous and radiant delight. 

‘‘ Nigh upon four pound ! ” he said. Well 
done, Roger ! But I don’t know how we’re to 
spend it, Victoria, my dear. It’s not wanted 
for your buryin’.” 

‘'It’s for her weddin’ wi’ Capt. Upjohn!” 
called out Roger, with a chuckle of delight; 
whilst Euclid laughed hoarsely, and Mrs. Lin- 
nett joined him, as Victoria cried, “Father, shut 
the door ! ” 

It was true. Capt. Upjohn, the master of a 
sloop trading to and from Sweden, and an old 
shipmate of Thomas Linnett, though many 
years younger, was about to make Victoria his 
wife. No fear now that she would ever have to 
rough it, little and tender as she was. Capt. 
Upjohn would see to that; and he would see to 
old Euclid himself, and provide a home for him, 
when it was no longer possible for him to earn 
his own bread. There was some talk already 
of setting him up with a donkey-cart, and so 


victoria’s wedding. 


219 


putting him into a larger and more respectable 
way of living; for Capt. Upjohn was a man 
who should have married in a higher rank than 
that of water-cress-sellers, and would have done 
it if he had not met with Victoria at Mrs. 
Linnett’s, and thought so much of her as to 
forget her father’s low estate. 

Proud and happy beyond words was old 
Euclid when his last and only child, Victoria, 
was married, and he led her to church, her dear 
hand in his, to give her away to Capt. Upjohn, 
instead of following her to the grave as he had 
followed her mother and all his other children. 
He knew the burial-service well, or rather he 
knew the ceremony of a funeral, for the words 
had made little impression on him ; but a wed 
ding was new to him. He could dimly remem- 
ber what he said when he married Victoria’s 
mother; and, as Capt. Upjohn and Victoria 
exchanged the same vows, he felt that he could 
be content to die that very moment. 

“I should like her mother to know as Vic- 
toria’s married ! ” was his speech at the feast 
Mrs. Linnett gave in her little kitchen. 

They went down the river to Greenwich; 


220 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


and surely never was there such a day! Old 
Euclid declared he had never known one like 
it. Bess and Roger thought it was no brighter 
or warmer or happier than the one that had 
been spent on board ‘^The Cleopatra’* two 
summers before ; but the other three were dead 
against them. Capt. Upjohn maintained that 
there could be no question as to which day was 
the fairer one. Certainly no happier party 
ever strolled under the flitting shadows of the 
Spanish chestnut-trees in Greenwich Park, or 
ran down the slopes together ; old Euclid him- 
self running far in the rear with his shambling 
feet, and his gray hair blown about by the 
wind. 

And the coming home again up the river, 
in the cool of the evening, with the soft chill 
of the breeze playing on their faces ! Euclid 
sat very still and silent, with Victoria and her 
husband on one hand, and Bess, hardly less 
dear to him, and Roger, on the other. But his 
silence was the stillness and peacefulness of a 
happy old age, free now forevermore from all 
oppressive cares. To-morrow morning he would 
be up again at four o’clock, and go off to the 


victoria’s wedding. 


221 


market; but labor was no longer irksome to 
him. He was no longer drudging merely for a 
coffin and a grave. He was not now without 
hope and without God in the world. 

They landed in the dusk, and brushed past 
an idler, who was lounging near the stage, 
watching the steamers come and go. But he 
started and stared as his eyes fell upon them, 
and with a stealthy step he dogged their way 
home. Not one of them looked back. No one 
suspected that they were followed, though he 
kept them in sight until he saw Mrs. Linnett 
watching for their return over the half-door of 
her little shop, and waving a white handker- 
chief to welcome them. Then he turned away, 
and sauntered homewards to the old place, 
where Euclid had saved and hoarded and lost 
the money which Roger had stolen. 

“ It’s old Euclid ! ” he had muttered to him 
self, “and Victoria as grand as a lady, and 
little Bess; and who’s the lad o’ nineteen or 
so ? Why, it must be Roger ! my son Roger ! 
And he’s doing well, by his clothes! I’ll be 
e/en wi’ every one on ’em yet.” 


222 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Blackett’s revenge. 

I T was five years since David Fell had first 
crossed the fatal threshold of the jail. He 
had graduated in crime ; and, being neither a 
blockhead nor a lout, he had developed skill 
enough to transgress the laws, and yet evade 
the penalty. The untrained ability of an Eng- 
lish artisan, and the shrewd tact of a London 
lad, had grown into the cunning and business- 
like adroitness of a confirmed criminal. The 
police knew him well by sight or report ; but he 
had kept out of their hands for the last two 
years, in spite of much suspicion and many 
hairbreadth escapes from conviction. He was 
doing credit to the brotherhood which had been 
forced upon him, — the brotherhood of thieves. 
There was no disgrace for him now, except the 
disgrace of being found out 


Blackett's revenge. 


223 


Blackett had drifted back to his old quarters 
after Roger’s time was up on board " The Cleo- 
patra,” and he was no longer liable to be called 
upon to pay half a crown a week for his mainte- 
nance. David had gone with him; for there 
was a lingering faithfulness in his nature, 
which attached him to the only fellow-man 
who had not turned his back upon him when 
he came out of jail. They had taken Euclid’s 
old garret, which afforded good facilities for 
escape from a hot pursuit along the neighbor- 
ing roofs. For a little while David had felt 
mournful — or, as Blackett called it, mopish — 
at finding himself back again in the self-same 
spot where he had taken care of Bess, and 
helped his mother in her dire struggle for life. 
But presently the slight impression wore off. 
Blackett made much of him. They shared and 
fared alike, and lived together as though they 
were father and son. 

It was a merry thought to Blackett, that, if 
the magistrates had filched Roger from him, 
they had thrust David into his hands, who 
was worth twice as much as Roger. He had 
spirit and energy and brains. The clecj-headed 


224 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


sense of the honest carpenter, his father, mud- 
dled neither by drink nor ignorance, had de- 
scended to David in a measure that set him 
far above the poor, idle, terrified Roger, who 
had always cowered away from Blackett’s sav- 
agery. He dared not be savage with David, 
and his respect for him almost amounted to 
affection. He was uneasy and anxious when 
David was long absent, and a welcome was 
always ready for him when he made his appear- 
ance in the garret. 

Blackett said nothing to David of the dis- 
covery he had made of Euclid’s dwelling-place, 
and the fact that Bess shared it. Carefully 
disguised, he haunted the taverns in the neigh- 
borhood of Mrs. Linnett’s shop, to pick up any 
information he could concerning Euclid or his 
own son Roger. It was not long before some 
sailors, coming in from a long voyage, fell into 
the trap he laid for them, and talked of the 
heaps of money left with Mrs. Linnett, and the 
numerous sea-chests, filled with valuable goods, 
which she took care of for absent seamen. 

Roger was gone to sea again, and Capt. Up- 
john had taken Victoria to visit his people at 


Blackett’s revenge. 


225 


Portsmouth : so no one was left in the house 
but Bess and the two old people. It was a 
rare chance, if only he could get David to 
seize it. There would be Euclid’s hoards into 
the bargain ; for Blackett had never ceased to 
believe he was a miser, who had untold money 
secreted in holes and corners, if they could 
only make him reveal his hiding-places. But 
would David do it ? There was an irresistible 
fascination to Blackett in the thought of at last 
fulfilling his threats, and wreaking his ven- 
geance upon Euclid. 

Old Euclid,” he muttered contemptuously, 

‘ ’ and Bess and a old woman ! I could almost 
manage ’em myself.” 

He set craftily to work upon David’s imagi- 
nation, describing the sea-chests in the old 
woman’s room, and their contents, as if he had 
seen them ; and the hoards of the miser, who 
carried bank-notes stitched into the lining of 
his waistcoat, over which he wore a ragged old 
blouse. He dared not tell David the name of 
the miser, nor mention Bess. There was a 
soft spot still in David’s heart, and Blackett 
knew it. 


226 


iN PRISON AND OUT. 


It had been a slack time of late, and all 
their ill-gotten gains were gone. There was no 
longer money to spend at the tavern, with its 
many attractions, at the comer of the street; 
and the garret was a miserable place to spend 
the whole day in. David was weary of having 
nothing to do, and there seemed no reason to 
him why he should not enter into Blackett^s 
schemes. 

It was a dark night when Blackett and 
David, having matured their well-laid plans, 
entered the quiet street, and surveyed the 
front of the house they were about to break 
into. The street-lamps made it clear enough. 
On one side stood a high warehouse, empty 
and closed for the night, unless there should 
be some watchman in it, of whom there was 
no sign ; on the other was an unoccupied 
dwelling-house, with the bills ‘‘To let’' grown 
yellow in the windows. There was no light to 
be seen in any casement in the short street ; 
for people who work hard go to bed early. To 
get to the little yard at the back of Mrs. Lin- 
nett’s house, it was necessary to turn down a 
narrow passage beyond the unoccupied teno 


liLACKETX’s REVENGE. 


227 


ment, and to climb over a wall, in which there 
was no door. But there was no difficulty in 
doing this, even for Blackett; and David was 
over it in an instant. It was the dense dark- 
ness of a cloudy night, and the overshadowing 
gloom of the high walls surrounding them, 
which created the only perplexity. 

“It’s as dark as the black hole,” muttered 
David ; immediately afterwards stumbling over 
a bucket, the iron handle of which rattled 
loudly. He stood perfectly still and motion- 
less ; whilst Blackett grasped the top of the 
wall with both hands, ready for instant flight. 

But there was not a sound to be heard in the 
house, or in either of the buildings on each 
side. All about them there was a dead hush, 
unbroken by any of the numerous noises of 
life and toil with which the streets were full 
throughout the day. As David’s eyes grew 
more accustomed to the obscurity, the dark 
sky became dimly visible overhead, cut by the 
black outline of the surrounding roofs. This 
little, ancient dwelling-place, left standing be- 
tween two more modern and much loftier build- 
ings, looked as if it was pinched in and hugged 


228 


IN PRISON AND OUY. 


between them, with its old, half-timber walls, 
and low yet high-pitched roof, with a single 
gable, and a dormer window in it. He could 
make it out in the gloom, as he stood breath- 
less and motionless in the shadow of the wall, 
listening for any sign of moving within. He 
was not afraid : there was nothing to be afraid 
of. In three minutes he and Blackett could be 
safe away. But he felt something like reluc- 
tance to break the stillness and tranquillity of 
the little, quiet house. Besides, there were 
only an old man and old woman in it. If they 
made any noise and resistance, what would 
Blackett do, — Blackett, who was always sav- 
age when his , blood was up } A number of 
thoughts seemed crowding through his brain, 
as he paused, with his eyes and ears all alert, to 
catch any token of the waking and stirring 
of the old folks. But it was only for a few 
minutes. A church-clock near at hand chimed 
four quarters, and then struck one. The spot 
<vas as desolate at this hour as it ever could be. 

‘We’re not going to do ’em any hurt, you 
snow,” he whispered to Blackett, ‘Tor luck’s 
sake. They are old folks, you said. We’ll not 


Blackett’s revenge. 229 

'‘No, no ! ” answered Blackett, laughing with- 
in himself in the darkness. He would like to 
be even with old Euclid, and pay off the grudge 
he had owed him these many years. There 
was bound to be a scuffle, though there was no 
danger for himself or David in it. Two strong, 
active men would find it mere play to over 
power Euclid and Mrs. Linnett ; and Bess 
would not count for much. What would David 
do if he found out that Bess was in it ^ If he 
could, he would silence her first, before David 
knew who she was. 

But though there was no light to be seen, 
and no movement to be heard, in the dark 
little house before them, there was a quiet, 
noiseless stirring within, which would have 
frightened them away, or hurried them on in 
the execution of their project, if they had but 
known it. Mrs. Linnett was a light sleeper; 
and she had been broad awake when David 
stumbled over the bucket, and she heard the 
clatter as loudly as he did. Her bedroom waj- 
the one whose window overlooked the yard ; 
and she had drawn aside the curtain a very 
little, and peeped cautiously into the gloom 


230 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


Blackett’s figure, with his hands upon the wall, 
ready to leap back, from the inner side of it, 
was quite visible, even in the dark night 
Would it be safe to increase the alarm of the 
thieves by showing herself? She was afraid 
to do that, lest it should fail. Her room was 
crowded with seamen’s chests, piled one upon 
another, seven or eight of them, left in her 
keeping by old shipmates, who had. trusted 
their possessions confidently to her care. She 
stepped quietly back to the bed, and woke up 
Bess, who was sleeping the deep, unbroken 
sleep of girlhood. 

Hush, Bess ! hush ! ” she whispered, laying 
a hand on her mouth. There’s robbers in 
the yard ! Get up quietly, and slip out at the 
front, lass, and run for your life to the police. 
It’s for me and Euclid, and the mates away at 
sea. It’s nigh upon one o’clock in th’ night; 
and we might all be murdered before anybody 
’ud hear us shout for help.” 

So, whilst David was listening and watching 
in the yard, Bess was rapidly getting on scm'.e 
clothing ; and, as Blackett began to remove the 
pane through which he could unfasten the 


BLACKETT’S REVENGE. 


231 


kitchen-window, she was creeping downstairs, 
from step to step, with stealthy and noiseless 
feet. She heard the quiet grating of the tool 
Blackett was using, and her teeth chattered 
with fright. But she stole by unseen into the 
little shop beyond ; and letting down the old- 
fashioned wooden bar, and turning the key 
cautiously, she opened the door, closed it after 
her, and fled swiftly down the deserted street. 

There was so little difficulty in opening the 
kitchen-window, that, in a few minutes, Black* 
"ett and David were both inside, and now 
lighted the small lantern they had brought with 
them. They moved about as quietly as they 
could, though they had no fear of the conse- 
quences of arousing the inmates, whom they 
could easily gag and bind if need be. But 
there was still no sign or sound of waking in 
the house. Mrs. Linnett, indeed, was standing 
within her room, with her door ajar, hearken- 
ing, and peering down the staircase, and won- 
dering, as she trembled with dread, how long 
Bess would be; but they could not know she 
was watching for them until they went upstairs. 

And now fly, Bess! fly! If you meet any 


232 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


belated wayfarer in the street, or see the light 
of any watcher in a window, give the alarm 
quickly. Give way to no terror that might 
hinder you. Every minute is worth more than 
you can count. Run swiftly — for old Euclid, 
fast asleep after the day’s toil ; for Mrs. Lin- 
nett, shivering with helpless fright ; for the 
mates at sea, and for Roger, whose goods an. 
in danger. And yet, Bess, if you did but know 
who it is that has broken into your quiet house 
as a thief and a robber, you would fly back 
more swiftly than you are running for help ; and 
with your arms about his neck, as when you 
were little children together, and your voice 
pleading in his ear, you 'might save him even 
now at the last moment ! 

Blackett cast a glance over the little shop 
with its miscellaneous wares, and round the 
small kitchen ; but it was plain there was no 
booty there. The miser’s hoard and the sea- 
men’s chests must be in the bedrooms, and 
they wasted no more time before mounting the 
narrow and winding staircase. Euclid was not 
sleeping in his closet, as Victoria was away ; 
and the door of the front room stood at the top 


Blackett’s revenge. 


233 


of the crooked stairs. They pushed it open, 
and the light of their lantern fell full upon the 
old man’s face. 

** Why, it’s old Euclid 1 ” shouted David in a 
loud and angry voice. 

‘‘Ay, ay! Is it time to be stirring.?” he 
asked, rousing himself, and looking up in be- 
wilderment. 

“ Curse you I you never told me who it was I ’ 
cried David, turning fiercely upon Blackett. 

But the old man had already sprung up, for- 
getful of his feebleness ; and, calling upon Mrs, 
Linnett to fasten herself in her room, he flung 
himself with desperate courage upon Blackett. 
Blackett shook him off with ease, and, seizing 
him by the throat, threw him down on the floor, 
and knelt upon his chest, with a savage cruelty 
in his eyes. 

“Get up!” cried David, struggling to pull 
him away: “you sha’n’t murder him, and me 
stand by.” 

“I’ll half-murder him,” muttered Blackett 
“I’ll have my revenge.” 

Then began a deadly conflict between them ; 
Euclid, as soon as Blackett’s hand was off his 


234 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


throat, helping in the fray with the feeble 
daring of old age. The chair on which David 
had 'set down the lantern was upset ; and the 
light went out, leaving them in utter darkness 
as they swayed to and fro about ’the room, 
never loosing one another, amid oaths and 
threats, and smothered groans from Euclid, 

growing fainter and fainter, as Blackett and 

0 

David fought above him. 

But now Bess was speeding back again, with 
two policemen running at a few paces behind 
her. The clanking of their footsteps on the 
pavement below was the first sound which 
broke in upon the struggle, and brought it to a 
pause. David heard it first, and loosed his 
grasp of Blackett in an instant. The steps 
had not yet reached the door ; and in a moment 
he was down the staircase, and ready for flight 
by the way he had come. But Bess, whose 
light, swift feet had made no noise, was already 
within the house; and she sprang forward to 
arrest him, clasping him in her strong young 
arms with a vehement and tenacious grasp, 
from which he could not free himself. The 
policemen were but a few paces behind her. 


BLACKETTS REVENGE. 235 

“ Oh ! be quick ! ” she called. ** He's here ! I 
can't hold him long." 

Her voice was shrill and strained ; but David 
knew it too well. It was Bess who was holding 
him with such passionate strength, and his own 
strength seemed to melt away at the sound of 
her cry. The little sister he had loved so well, 
and been so proud of, — his poor mother’s little 
lass ! 

Bess," he groaned, it’s me — David ! " 

With a wild, terrified, heart-broken shriek, 
tlie girl’s arms fell from their close grasp of 
him, and she sank to the ground at his feet as 
if he had struck her a deadly blow. But, had 
he wished it, there was no time to escape ; for 
the foremost policeman caught him firmly by 
the arm, and held it as if it had been in a vise. 

If you want to hinder murder," cried David, 
‘*be sharp upstairs. Take me along with you; 
but, for God’s sake, lose no time." 

Were they in time ^ or was it already too 
late.^ Old Euclid lay motionless on the floor, 
his withered face and gray hair stained with 
blood; and Mrs. Linnett was kneeling beside 
him, calling to him to speak, or look up at 


236 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


her. The window was open, showing the way 
by which the murderer had escaped. The 
second policeman started off at once in pursuit 
of him ; whilst the other, who dared’ not loose 
his hold of David, looked on at Mrs. Linnett’s 
vain attempt to raise the old man, and lay him 
on his bed. The whole room was in disorder ; 
for the short struggle had been very violent. 

“ I’m David Fell,” said the prisoner in a 
strange and lamentable voice. ” I never knew 
as it was old Euclid we were goin' to rob. I’d 
ha’ cut off my right hand first. Handcuff me, 
and tie my feet together, if you can. Only see 
if the old man's dead or not.” 

” Nay, I must see you safe first,” the police- 
man answered. ” None o’ your tricks and 
dodges for me. Come along, and I’ll send help 
as soon as I can. ’ ' 

Bess was crouching on the floor downstairs, 
slowly coming to her senses ; and David stood 
still for a moment, as the light of the police- 
man’s lantern lit up her white and scared face, 
and terrified eyes. 

” She’s my sister,” said David again, in the 
same strange and lamentable voice. ‘ ‘ Bess, I’d 


Blackett’s revenge. 


237 


sooner have drowned myself in the river than 
come here to spoil your life !” 

Bess covered her face with her hands, shiver- 
ing, and listened, in faint and deadly sickness, 
to the sound of David’s retreating footsteps, 
till they were lost in the stillness of the night. 


238 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


CHAPTER XXL 

WHO IS TO BLAME? 

HEN Bess, after a few minutes of 



V V almost deadly anguish, crept feebly 
upstairs, she found Mrs. Linnett still kneeling 
beside old Euclid, who was stretched upon the 
floor. The policeman's lamp, set upon the 
mantel-shelf, lit up his blood-stained face and 
hair, and displayed the disorder of the room. 
She helped Mrs. Linnett to lift up the old man, 
and lay him on the bed ; and then she sped away 
again to fetch a doctor, though not so swiftly as 
she ran before for help against the housebreak 
ers. Would she ever run so fast again ? 

By the time she returned, a woman had been 
sent from the police-station, and ^policeman 
was on duty in the house. The doctor, who 
followed her quickly, after a brief examination 


WHO IS TO BLAME? 


239 


of old Euclid, said he could discover nj serious 
wound, but that it was impossible to tell how 
grave the injuries he had sustained might 
prove. He had the blood washed from his 
face and hair ; and, after that, Euclid lay still, 
much as if he had been asleep : only his pulses 
beat very faintly, and life seemed to have ebbed 
away to its lowest tide. 

The morning came ; and policemen were 
coming and going all day long, examining the 
premises, and asking the same questions over 
and over again, — or so it seemed to Bess. 
Neighbors crowded in to chat with Mrs. Lin- 
nett about the perils of the night, and to take 
a peep at the unconscious old man, who had 
been almost, if not quite, murdered. The ques- 
tion was, whether he would d'e or live. David 
refused to give up his accomplice ; but Blackett 
had been arrested on suspicion. Nothing more 
could be done until Euclid’s consciousness re- 
turned, — if it ever returned, — and he could 
give his evidence. A policeman was stationed 
there until this should happen. At last night 
came on again, and Bess, refusing to leave old 
Euclid, persuaded Mrs. Linnett to go to bed; 


240 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


whilst the doctor, finding three or four neigh* 
bors whispering and buzzing in the room, 
ordered them all away, and told Bess to watch 
him by herself. She sat beside him hour after 
hour, sleepless, yet almost stupefied by her 
sorrow. Could it be true that David had done 
this cruel, wicked deed ? And, oh ! if Euclid 
died, what would be done to him ? The sick- 
ness of despair filled her whole heart as this 
thought came back to her in spite of all her 
efforts to shut it out. 

“ Bess,” whispered a very low, faint voice, in 
the dead of the night, “ it was our David ! ” 

** Yes,” she whispered back again in Euclid’s 
ear. But a deep throb of agony struck through 
Her as she heard him say it was David. 

“He fought for me agen Blackett,” said 
Euclid. ’ “He saved my life. Blackett ’ud ha' 
murdered me.” 

With a loud sob, Bess fell on her knees by 
che bedside. Thank God, David was not as 
bad as he had seemed! He had not joined 
with Blackett in his savage purpose. David 
was not a murderer I Oh, what a load seemed 
suddenly rolled away from her girlish heart! 
Her brother was only a thief I 


WHO IS TO BLAME ? 


241 


“ He saved my life,” murmured old Euclid 
over and over again, as though his brain was 
bewildered still. ” Bess, he saved my life.” 

His faculties came back to him very slowly ; 
and it was two or three days before he recov- 
ered the full possession of his memory, so as to 
be able to make a deposition before a magis- 
trate. Blackett and David were committed to 
take their trial at the Central Criminal Court. 
Victoria had come back to help to nurse her 
father ; and for a short time their life fell back 
into its old course, excepting that Euclid no 
longer started off for the market every morning. 

But the dreaded day came at last, when 
Euclid and Mrs. Linnett, and poor Bess herself, 
were compelled to appear at the sessions and 
give their evidence against David and Blackett. 
Mr. Dudley had engaged counsel to defend 
David, that every fact in his favor might be 
made public, and his sentence, in consequence, 
be mitigated. There was not the shadow of a 
hope of an acquittal. 

When Bess stood up in the witness-box, she 
saw only two faces clearly. There was David, 
pale, abject, frightened, with bent head, and 


242 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

dim, mournful eyes fastened upon her; and 
there was the judge opposite to her, calm and 
grave, with a searching keenness in his gaze. 
As she told her name, David’s lips moved a 
little, as though he was repeating it to himself. 

Unconsciously, merely answering the ques- 
tions put to her, Bess told the story of David’s 
two first convictions, and the sorrow they had 
wrought. 

“ He was always a good boy to mother and 
me,” she said, sobbing; ‘*and he’s good to me 
still. He’d never be told where I lived for fear 
he’d spoil my life. O Davy ! Davy ! ” 

She burst into tears, and stretched out her 
arms to him, as if she would throw them about 
his bowed-down head, and cling to him in face 
of them all, in spite of his deep disgrace. 
David laid his head on the bar at which he 
stood, and shook with the sobs he forced him- 
self to control. 

He did not look up again till Euclid was 
taking the oath. The old man appeared many 
years older than he had done before the mur- 
derous attack made upon him. His gray hair 
was quite white and his cheeks and temples 


WHO IS TO BLAME? 


243 


had fallen in like those of a very aged man ; 
but he smiled at David, and nodded affection- 
ately. So far as the cruel assault upon himself 
went, he completely cleared him : it was Black- 
ett alone that had maltreated him. 

** David Fell never lifted up his hand agen 
me, my lord and judge,” said Euclid warmly 
and energetically. “He fought for me, and 
I’d ha’ been a murdered man this minute but 
for him. Why,. I’ve known David ever since 
he was this high, and he’d ha’ made a good 
man if he’d had a chance. He hadn’t a chance 
after he’d been sent to jail, and his mother was 
as good a woman as ever you see.” 

At the mention of his mother, David’s face 
grew as pale as death, and his lips quivered. 
He fancied he could hear her voice calling his 
name. For years past he had tried to deaden 
the memory of her ; but now it seemed as if he 
could see her plainly, sitting by the dim, red light 
of a handful of embers, talking to him and Bess 
about their father. To work hard and honestly 
as his father had dons had been his mother’s re- 
ligion, — the simple code of duty she had tried to 
teach him. Thank God, his mother was in her 
gra\ t, and knew nothing of his guilt and shame ! 


244 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


His brain giew weary, and he ceased to take 
notice of what was going on after Euclid dis- 
appeared. Different men stood up and spoke, — 
some for a minute or two, others for longer ; but 
he did not understand them : their speech was 
as a foreign tongue to him. His previous 
convictions had been very summary, and the 
proceedings now appeared complicated and per- 
plexing. Why were they so long over this 
trial.? Everybody knew he had broken into 
the house for the purpose of robbery. His 
first two trials, when he was a young lad, had 
not occupied five minutes each. Why were 
they so much more careful of him now when it 
was too late ? 

At last his wandering attention was caught 
by the utterance of his mother’s name. He 
turned his eyes to the speaker, and never with- 
drew them from his face until he ceased to 
speak. It was the counsel whom Mr. Dudley 
had engaged for him. 

** Elizabeth Fell was left a widow at the age 
of twenty-four, with a boy and a girl to provide 
for. What aid did we offer her ? We told her 
she might take refuge in our workhouse, among 


WHO IS TO BLAME? 


245 


the outcasts and profligates of her sex, where 
we would take from her her children, who were 
as dear to her as our children are to their 
mothers, and bring them up apart from her. IJ 
she refused such an offer, we would leave her tc 
fight her battle alone. She chose drudgery and 
hunger — a terrible disease, and death itself — 
rather than take our aid on our terms. 

‘*When she lay dying, gnawed by famine, 
with a mere pittance of out-door relief, her son, 
a lad under fourteen years of age, ventuieci 
t/j go out and beg for his mother. He was 
ashamed to beg, willing, on the other hand, tc 
work, having an ambition to tread in the steps 
of his father, the honest and skilful artisan. 
What did we do for Elizabeth Fell's child f 
We arrested him, dragged him before a hurried 
and over-worked magistrate, omitted to investi 
gate his statements, and, after a brief trial oi 
four or five minutes, sent him to jail for three 
months. This was in England 1 

‘‘David Fell hastened home, when his first 
imprisonment was ended, to find his mothei 
still alive, but on her death-bed. In her dire ex 
tremity she had parted with the most sacred 


246 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

treasure she possessed, — her wedding-ring ^ 
and she and her young daughter had literally 
starved themselves to redeem this sacred sym- 
bol. It was redeemed the day after David Fell’s 
release from jail ; but the ring given back by the 
pawnbroker was not the familiar, precious relic, 
so perfectly known to them all. It had either 
been sweated by the dishonest pawnbroker, 
or exchanged for another and a thinner ring. 
The lad, in a passion of mingled grief and re- 
sentment, rushes away to secure his mother’s 
own wedding-ring. The man assailed his dying 
mother’s good fame; and, utterly reckless of 
all consequences, David Fell sprang upon him 
in a frenzy of hot resentment, and felled him to 
the ground. The pawnbroker was a house- 
holder and a rate-payer. Once again there was 
no investigation made. No credence was given 
to the boy’s angry and bewildered statements. 
We committed him a second time to jail for 
three months. 

“ These were the two first steps — two long 
stages — on the road to ruin, — the road which 
has led him to this bar to-day. Who is to 
blame } — the lad, willing to work, but untaught 


WHO IS TO BLAME? 


247 


and awkward, with no training but that of the 
street, whom no man would hire for his want 
of skill and dexterity ? or the magistrate, over- 
worked with a pressure of serious business ? 01 
the police, with their legion of juvenile crimi- 
nals, whose statements are mostly falsehoods ? 
The magistrate cannot give the time, the police 
cannot give the trouble, to investigate cases 
like David Fell’s. 

“ The boy was like other boys, our sons, with 
high spirits and heedless heads. Have we never 
known our sons beg — ay, and beg importu- 
nately — for what they want ? Do they not fight 
at times on a tenth part of the provocation this 
boy had ? I will go further. Have none of 
them ever been guilty of some small theft? 
Would you send those thoughtless, passionate 
lads of yours, who are to come after you in 
life as citizens standing in the places you win 
for them, — would you send them, for such 
crimes as David Fell committed, — begging for 
his dying mother, and defending her good 
name, — to the black shadow of a jail, and the 
ieep brand of imprisonment ? Would you bind 
your boys hand and foot, and cast them into a 


248 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


gulf, and, if they crawled out of it, crush them 
down again, because they brought with them 
the mire and clay of the pit ? Yet this is what 
we do with our juvenile criminals. 

“The prisoner is guilty of burglary. He 
is not yet nineteen years of age, and he has 
been already four times in jail. I ask again. 
Whose fault is it ? 

“ He must be punished ? True. But let 
the penalty —too well deserved this time — be 
tempered with mercy. We have tried se- 
verity. We have confounded his sense of right 
and wrong : it is we who have extinguished the 
feeble glimmer of light his poor mother had 
kindled in his conscience. I ask you to re- 
member the prisoner’s sad career, his devotion 
to his mother, his love for his young sister, his 
defence of the old man from the murderous 
attack made upon him. I ask you to remember, 
that, whilst he was yet a child, in this Christian 
land of ours, we sent him once and again to jail 
as the fitting penalty for childish faults.” 

David heard no more, nor had he fully un- 
derstood the words he had listened to. His 
throat was parched, and his sight was dim. The 


WHO IS TO BLAME? 


249 


court seemed filled with mist, which blurred 
all the faces around him. He stood at the bar 
for a very long time yet before the policeman 
next to him nudged him roughly, and bade him 
attend to his lordship. 

“Have you any thing to say for yourself?' 
asked the judge. 

“ Nothing : only I’d ha’ drownded myself 
before I’d ha’ hurt little Bess or old Euclid,” 
he stammered. 

In a few minutes after, he was led down a stair- 
case into a room on the floor below the court, 
and a policeman was fitting him with handcuffs. 

“What are they goin’ to do with Blackett 
and me ? ” he asked. 

“Didn’t you hear the sentence?” rejoined 
the policeman. 

“No,” he answered. “I can’t see nor heai 
nothin’ plain.” 

“Ten years for Blackett,” was the rep'y, 
‘‘and two for you. You’re let off pretty easy ” 


2$0 


IN PRISON AND OUT 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THROUGH JAIL TO THE GRAVE. 

D avid returned to jail broken-hearted 
and weary of life. Circumstances had 
thrust him into a career to which he had not 
been born : he could not drift with the tide that 
was rapidly sweeping him down to utter rascal- 
dom. His early training, and his faithful love 
for his mother and sister, set him at odds 
with the mass of young thieves born and bred 
amid the lowest dregs of the London populace. 
There had always been a vital difference be- 
tween him and them. 

He had never ceased to be conscious of an 
aching sense of degradation and loss lurking 
beneath the artificial pleasure Blackett had 
taught him to feel in the vicious habits of men 
like himself. He had learned to associate with 


THROUGH JAIL TO THE GRAVE. 25 1 

them; but he had never been in heau one Df 
them. And now that he had been blindly led 
into crime against the home that had sheltered 
Bess, and against her friend old Euclid, who 
had barely escaped with his life, he felt as if he 
had sunk to the last depth of infamy and 
wickedness. 

It was little Bess herself who had hindered 
him from making his escape. Poor little Bess ! 
how desperately she had clung to the thief, lest 
he should get clear off ! Dreams of it visited 
him in his prison-cell. When he fell asleep he 
seemed to be about to make some hairbreadth 
escape into freedom and a better life ; but at 
the last moment, when success appeared sure, 
Bess would snatch him back, and plunge him 
again into his gulf of dark despair. It was 
always Bess who held him fast till his enemies 
— sometimes human, sometimes devilish — were 
upon him. And then, when he was recaptured, 
and she saw his face, who it was, and called 
him by his name, she would fall down at his 
feet, and die ; and it was his wickedness that 
had killed her ! Such dreams t-s these terrified 
and scared him. 


252 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


David became a loathing to himself. A 
thief ! It was the name he had been taught 
to abhor and dread from his infancy. His 
mother’s simple creed had been, to be honest 
and industrious, and to take all that happened 
to her as being the will of God. But now he 
was himself the being his mother had most 
feared and hated. It was as if some tender- 
hearted man had found himself guilty of an act 
of savage cruelty, or an innocent, guileless girl 
had plunged unawares into an abyss of infamy. 
David had become the thing which he ab- 
horred : he was an abomination to himself. 
Two years would soon pass away. But what 
after that ? He would still be a thief, when he 
was released from jail, and the ranks of honest 
men would be more firmly closed against him 
than ever. If he could have his choice, he 
would stay within the shadow of the prison- 
walls, and not creep forth again to find no com- 
radeship except with thieves. His heart failed 
him to think of having no fellowship but with 
such men as Blackett. He knew that there was 
not a chance of any thing better. The jail- 
brand could never be got rid of in this life. 


THROUGH JAIL TO THE GRAVE. 


253 


He was no longer classed among the juvenile 
criminals. He worked at his trade among the 
adult prisoners ; but he held no manner of inter- 
course with any of them. The work he did 
was little — not enough to keep him from fre- 
quent punishment ; but neither encouragement 
nor punishment aroused him to any interest in 
it. He was never heard to speak in answer to 
praise or blame. His eyes were often fixed on 
the floor, as if he was lost in a kind of dream. 
He was silent, apathetic, and sullen. What- 
ever was going on around him, he appeared 
deaf and blind and dumb. Often he looked 
almost imbecile. 

Now and then a darker shadow brooded over 
his face. It was when the thought crossed his 
brain of how easily he could put an end to his 
misery, if he were but standing once more on 
the brink of the river. He could fancy he saw 
its rapid current hurrying away to the sea. 
Why had he never escaped from the wretched- 
ness that hemmed him in by this swift and easy 
road ? Here, in jail, it would be difficult to 
make an end of himself. It had been done ; 
but he shrank from the way to do it. If he 


254 


IN PR. SON AND OUT. 


could only fling himself into the cool, rapid 
river, and sink in it ! 

There was chapel for him, and daily prayers, 
and the chaplain’s visits; but none of them 
brought comfort to his despair. They were 
part of the machinery of the criminal court 
and the jail. The religion was that of the 
State, which had first neglected him, and then 
driven him into the gulf which had swallowed 
him up body and soul. If that religion was 
for any upon earth, it was for the rich and 
powerful, not for the poor and feeble like his 
mother, and the erring and sinful like himself ! 
The poor were pinned down to suffering and 
crime ; whilst the rich were fenced in from 
temptation to outward sins, and set in high 
places to make laws and enforce them. Such 
Christianity was no gospel to David Fell. 

Day after day, night after night, through 
long weeks and months, did David’s heart die 
within him. Very slowly, almost impercepti- 
bly, his physical powers failed him also. His 
hand lost its cunning, and his sight grew dim. 
Wrapped up in his wretchedness, he made no 
complaint, and asked for ao favor. His body 


THROUGH JAIL TO THE GRAVE. 255 

filled up its appointed place, sat at his tench, 
crawled to and fro along the corridors, crouched 
in his cell ; but he hardly felt or knew what he 
was doing, or where he was. He was the mere 
shadow of a man. The life and spirit and heart 
of being was dying out of him. 

There was only one thing that stirred the 
flickering life within him. This was the let- 
ters that Bess wrote to him, always loving and 
cheerful, promising that all should yet be well 
for him when he was once more free. She 
would go with him to some far-off land, she 
wrote, and they would begin life afresh to- 
gether. But David would shake his head 
mournfully over these dear promises. Would 
it not indeed spoil her life if he let her leave 
old Euclid and Mrs. Linnett, and the home in 
which she was so happy ? That could never be. 

One Sunday morning, after chapel, he found 
a letter in his cell. He had been twelve 
months in jail, and Bess had written three 
times. It was time for a fourth to come, and 
he seized it as eagerly as a man dying of thirst 
clutches at a draught of cold water. But this 
letter was not from Bess. 


256 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


‘‘Dear David, — Pm a seaman now, earning good 
wages, and Pve saved twenty pounds ; and Mr. Dudley 
says, if I get on well in ' earning navigation, I shall be a 
mate soon. So Pve asked Bess if she’ll be my wife. 
O David ! nobody knows how I love Bess. Pm thinking 
of her night and day when Pm aboard, and when I’m 
ashore I can’t bear to be out of her sight She’s prettier 
and dearer every time I see her. But she says, ‘ No : I 
belong to Davy. He’s got nobody and nothing, save me.’ 
She never says that she can’t love me, or Pd never have 
wrote to you. Now, I want you to write to her, and tell 
her you’d like her to marry me ; and you’ll have a brother 
as well as a sister. It would be better for you if I mar- 
ried Bess, instead of another man, because I couldn’t 
never be ashamed of you, as father’s a thief, and my own 
two brothers. If she married any one else, he might 
taunt her some day, and I couldn’t. Don’t stand in my 
way, dear old Davy. I’ll be a good husband to Bess, and 
a good brother to you; and Pm earning good wages; 
and perhaps I may rise to be a captain, and then Bess 
shall be a lady. Only write to her, and say you’d like to 
have me for a brother, and you’ll never repent it From 
your loving friend, 

“Roger Blackett.” 

Dp,vid sat motionless for a long time, crush- 
ing the letter tightly in his feverish hand. 
There was no work to be done, and he had 
leisure to ponder over it bitterly. Roger Black- 


THROUGH JAIL TO THE GRAVE. 257 

ett ! How well he could remember the timid, 
browbeaten, half-starved lad, who lived in ter- 
ror of his savage father ' — a poor, idling, weak, 
despised boy, held cheap by all the other boys 
in the street ; the son of a notorious scoundrel, 
whose elder sons were London thieves. And 
now, after being trained on board ship, he was 
a seaman, earning good wages, and looking 
forward to be a mate, and thinking of marry- 
ing, — ay, of marrying Bess ! Some day he 
might rise to be the master of a vessel, and 
be called Captain Blackett ; whilst he — David 
Fell — what was he ? 

A castaway, a housebreaker, and a convict ! 

Roger would marry little Bess. David seemed 
to see it in a dream, — Bess in a house of her 
own, pretty and loving and good, with little 
children growing up about her; and Roger 
comL’ig home from his voyage, bringing gifts 
from foreign places, to show how he had 
thought of each one of them whilst he was 
far away. A life of honest, cheerful toil lay 
before Roger, with gladsome home delights, 
such as make this earth a pleasant world to 
live in. He seemed to see the children’s faces, 


258 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


and hear their voices ringing in his ears. AIJ 
that for Roger ; but what for him > 

Death on a jail-bed ! 

He felt it for a certainty as he crushed 
Roger’s letter in his fingers. The passage 
through jail to the grave had not been a long 
one ; and he was glad of it, if his dreary sense 
of making his escape out of an evil world could 
be called gladness. Death was very near at 
hand, and could not come too soon. 

The next day his warder recommended him 
to go into the hospital ; and he went. The 
medical officer could not say what ailed him, 
or under what name to catalogue his disease. 
There was no column in his report for hopeless- 
ness and heart-sickness. 


OUT OF THE PRISON-HOUSE. 


259 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

OUT OF THE PRISON-HOUSE. 

R oger never received an answer to hia 
letter to David. But a few days after it 
had been despatched, and after Roger was gone 
again to sea, there came an official permission 
to old Euclid and Bess to visit the prisoner. 
David Fell was dying, and requested to see 
them at once. There was no time to be lost, 
if they wished to see him alive ; and they 
hastened to obey the summons, scarcely real- 
izing the grief that had come upon them. 

David had begged to be taken back into his 
own cell, where there was quiet and loneliness, 
rather than to lie dying in the midst of the ras- 
cality of a prison-hospital. A softer mattress 
and pillow had been laid under him ; but, in 
every other respect, the bare, whitewashed cell 


26 o 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


remained as it was when he had entered it 
more than a year ago. Through the closely 
barred window, high up against the ceiling, 
could be seen only a patch of wintry sky, gray 
and cold with clouds. The heavy door, with its 
small round eyelet, through which the jailer 
could at any time watch the prisoner unseen, 
closed quietly upon Euclid and Bess as they 
entered David’s cell, and stood just within it 
as if afraid of stepping forward to the prison- 
bed. 

He was lying with his eyelids fast closed, 
and his white and sunken face resting so still 
upon his pillow, that as they stood there hand 
in hand, hardly daring to stir, they believed 
that he was already dead. But, when Bess 
tremblingly approached him, and laid her warm 
hand on the thin skeleton fingers lying on the 
dark rug which covered him, he looked up at 
once into her face, with no light or smile in his 
eyes, but with a gaze of speechless love and 
sorrow. 

“Davy!” she cried, sinking dotvn on her 
knees, and laying her cheek close against his 
upon the pillow, “ Davy I speak to me.” 


OUT OF THE PRISON-HOUSE. 26 1 

“Little Bess,” he said, “and Euclid! ” 

“ Ay, David I ” answered Euc'dd, looking down 
upon him in unutterable pity. The old man’s 
face wore an air of peace and of quiet gladness, 
which had smoothed away its former gloom and 
roughness ; and his voice fell more softly on 
David’s ear than he had ever heard any voice, 
except his mother’s and little Bess’s. He turned 
his dim eyes to the old man’s face. 

“I’m dyin’,” he said, “in jail!” 

Euclid only nodded silently, whilst Bess 
drew his chilly hand to her lips, and kissed it 
tenderly. 

“ It’s been a cursed life for me,” he groaned ; 
“but it’s almost over.” 

“ O Davy ! ” sobbed Bess, “ if you get well, 
and only live to come out o’ jail, you and me’ll 
go away to some country a long way off, where 
you can live honest and happy.” 

“ It’s best as it is,” he said, stroking her rosy 
face fondly with his thin hand : “ I should ha’ 
spoiled your life, little Bess. Roger’ll make you 
a good husband, and care more for you when 
I’m gone ; and you’ll think of me sometimes. 
No, no ! Hell can’t be worse for me than this 
world’s been.” 


262 IN PRISON AND OUT. 

‘^Davy ! Davy!’* she cried, **you don’t think 
you’re goin’ there ! ” 

There’s no other place for me,” he an- 
swered. “Folks don’t go from jail to heaven. 
I’ve broke God’s laws ; and they say he’ll 
punish us worse there than they’ve punished 
us here. God couldn’t set me free to go to 
heaven.” 

“ But you're sorry,” said Bess, weeping. 

“ Ah ! I’m sorry I hadn’t a better chance, 
like Roger,” he muttered. “ I might ha’ made 
a good man ; but it’s too late now.” 

“ God knows all about it,” sobbed Bess. 

“ Ah ! and God can forgive you yet,” said 
Euclid. “Didn’t Jesus forgive the thief that 
was dyin’ side by side with him when he was 
bein’ crucified.? A thief, David! Bess, my 
dear, you read 't out to us, for I fear I might 
make some mistake about it.” 

Still kneeling by the bedside, with David’s 
cold hand clasped in her own, Bess read, in a 
faltering, sorrowful voice, these words : — 

“And there were also two others, malefac- 
tors, led with him to be put to death. 

“And when they were come to the place 


OUT OF THE PRISON-HOUSE. 263 

which is called Calvary, there they crucified 
him, and the malefactors, one on the right 
hand, and the other on the left. 

“Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for 
they know not what they do. 

“And one of the malefactors which were 
hanged railed on him, saying. If thou be Christ, 
save thyself and us. 

“ But the other answering rebuked him, say 
ing. Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in 
the same condemnation ? 

“And we indeed justly; for we receive the 
due reward of our deeds : but this man hath 
done nothing amiss. 

“And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember 
me when thou comest into thy kingdom. 

“And Jesus said unto him. Verily, I say unto 
thee. To-day shalt thou be with me in Para- 
dfse.” 

“That's it!" exclaimed Euclid: “the male- 
factors only received the due reward of their 
deeds ; but he had done nothing amiss. They’d 
broke the laws, and were bein’ crucified for it ; 
but Jesus was bein’ crucified with them ! It 
seemed as if there wasn’t any other place for 


264 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


them to fall into, save hell. But there was a 
road to Paradise, even from the three crosses 
on Calvary ; and Jesus was goin’ up that shinin’ 
road himself. They might both have gone with 
him to Paradise ; and you can go to him there 
from jail, David. The poor thief was dyin’ ; 
but it wasn’t too late to ask Jesus to remember 
him. I don’t say as you’re fit to go to heaven, 
David : I can’t say any thing about that. But 
that poor fellow went into Paradise with our 
Lord Jesus himself. That must be a place 
worth goin’ to. He says, ' In my Father’s 
house there are many places ; ’ and he’ll know 
where you are fit for.” 

Euclid’s face quivered and glowed with ear- 
nest entreaty, and his husky voice seemed to 
gain a softer and more appealing tone as he 
spoke. David fastened his drear)^ hopeless 
eyes upon him, listening as one listens to the 
distant, far-off sound, which foretells that help 
is coming. 

“Jesus himself was bein’ crucified as if he’d 
broke the laws as well as them,” said Bess, a 
light shining through her eyes. “He hadn’t 
ever done any sin ; but it’s like as if he said to 


OUT OB THE PRISON-HOUSE. 26^ 

himself, ‘There’s poor wicked folks as will be 
put to death for their wickedness; and maybe 
they’ll think I didn’t come to seek for them and 
save them, as well as the rest, if I don’t die like 
them.’ He must have meant to save the worst 
folks, or he might have died different, not as if 
he’d been breaking the laws himself. I never 
thought that of him before. He came to save 
thieves and murderers, and so he died as if he’d 
been one of them. Davy, you’re no farther 
away from Paradise than the poor thief was ! ” 

Tfe faint dawn of hope in David’s sunken 
eyes was growing brighter, as if the sound of 
help was coming nearer to him ; and he grasped 
the hand of little Bess more firmly in his 
trembling fingers. 

“Ay! there must be room for you there,” 
said old Euclid. “He’ll know where it’s best 
for you to be; and, O David! he loves you. 
Only think of that I Why, Bess and me, we’d 
have found a place for you, out o’ love and piiy, 
if you’d only lived to come out o’ jail ; and his 
love’s a hundred times more than ours. It 
stands to reason as his love is a hundred times 
more than what we poor creatures have. Only 


266 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


you think about him, and call to him. If you 
can’t say nothing else, just say, ‘Lord, remem- 
ber me,’ like tliat poor fellow on the cross be- 
side him. I wish I knew his name ; but that 
don’t matter. You’ll not hear Jesus speakin’, 
like he did; but all the same he’ll say, ‘To-day 
shalt thou be with me in Paradise.’ Bess, my 
dear, when we hear as David’s gone, you and 
me’ll say, ‘To-day he is with Jesus in Para- 
dise.’ It seems to me as if it ’ud be better than 
cornin’ out o’ jail into the streets o’ London.” 

The tears were rolling down old Euclid’s 
withered cheeks as David gazed up at him. 
The boy made a great effort to speak ; but the 
words faltered on his tongue. 

“A thousand times better if it’s true,” he 
gasped. 

“ If it isn’t true, there’s nothing else for you 
Of me of any good,” answered Euclid. “ We’re 
worse off than dogs. If there isn’t any God 
as loves us, nor any Saviour as died for us, this 
world’s a cruel, cursed place.” 

“ Oh, its true ! ” cried Bess, clasping his 
hands fondly in her own. “ I love you, Davy I 
and God loves you ; and Jesus died on the cross 


OUT OF THE PRISON-HOUSE. 26/ 

with a thief beside him. He wouldn’t ever 
have done it if he didn’t love us all.” 

But the time allotted to them had expired, 
and the warder warned them that they must 
go in a few minutes. Bess laid her bonny face 
against David’s dying head on the prison-pil- 
low, and put her hand upon his clammy cheek. 
The last moments were flying fast. Yet what 
more could they say to one another.^ Would 
they ever see one another again ? Was all the 
sorrowful past brought to this end at last.^ 
Must they leave each other here, and break 
forever the bonds of love and memory which 
had linked their lives together ? 

One more minute only. Euclid laid his hand 
on David’s chilly forehead. 

** Good-by ! God bless you ! ” sobbed the old 
man. 

‘‘ Good-by ! ” breathed David faintly. “ I didn’t 
mean to be a thief. Good-by, little Bess ! ” 

She pressed her lips to his once more in a 
long last kiss. Then they were compelled to 
leave him. The night was falling, and the light 
faded away slowly in the solitary cell. The 
warder came in to light the gas; but David 


268 


IN PRISON AND OUT. 


asked to be left yet a little longer in the gather- 
ing dusk. The gray of the wintry sky glim- 
mered palely amid the surrounding blackness 
as the jail-walls vanished from his dim eyes, and 
it looked the only way of escape from the thick 
darkness of the bare cell. He was alone. Love 
had been forced to quit him before life did. 
There was no hand to hold his as long as the 
icy fingers could feel its loving grasp ; no voice 
to whisper words of hope into the ear growing 
deaf to earthly sounds ; no touch on the cold 
damp forehead, telling of faithful companionship 
down to the very threshold of death. 

Now and then the warder glanced through 
the aperture in the thick door, seeing, in the 
dim twilight shed through the prison-window, 
that the prisoner lay still, and made no signs of 
needing help. Who among them could help 
him to die } The chaplain had visited him, and 
his friends had been to see him : there was 
nothing more to be done. The spirit, in all its 
ignorance and sorrow, bereft of human love, 
was slowly preparing to wing its flight into the 
dark and drear unknown. Alone and in prison 
David Fell was casting off the last link of the 


OUT OF THE PRISON-HOUSE. ^ 269 

heavy chain of grief and wrongs and crimes 
which we bound about the boy when we sent 
him to jail (for begging for his mother). 

At last a nurse came in to see him. The 
heart still beat feebly, though the gray change 
that is the forerunner of death had passed over 
his face. She stooped down over him ; for his 
lips moved, as though he were trying to speak 
into some listening ear. 

“ Lord, remember me ! ” he whispered. 

So God opened the prison-door, and set om 
prisoner free. 


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